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AN OLD PRAIRIE HEN. 



'/iOm <9 oiJ'Ajuui^^xA. >^yi 



Plow or pen, when idle, rust, — • 

Life is short and shallow. 
Many people buy to waste. 

Others lack for tallow. 
Labor does not always win 

Comfort, wool or rugs, 
l>ut tender vines and leaves ar« eat 

By the shiftless 'tater bugs. 



n. H. FRARY, Printer, 138 S. Water Street, 
1874. 






Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, 

by the author, in the oifice of the Librarian 

of Congress, at Washington. 



DEDICATED TO 

MOTHER O'LEARY, 

Whose lamp lighted the funereal pyre of 
Chicago, and waked the dead hopes of thou- 
sands through purgatory to the milky-way 
of human kindness, born of no creed but 
the God-like one which " makes the whole 
world kin." 



INDEX. 



PAGE. 

Pen Skeletons of the Brain 3 

Ode to the Bells 7 

Night 9 

My Patch-work Quilt 11 

Thanksgiving in 1800 and 1873 18 

Love is Liberty and abideth with Slavery 21 

To the first Baby Boy ; Greeting 24 

The Chief of '49 26 

To Mrs. L 29 

Get For'ard Jane 32 

The Moth and the Rust 36 

Dog-Day s 41 

From Cause to Effect 46 

My Humming-Birds' Nest 49 

Gracie and Junie 53 

Tweedle-de-Dum and Tweedle-de-Dee 56 

The National Dish 60 

Pride, Poverty, People , 62 

On the Death of a Sister 65 

Alone 68 

Why, What and Whisky 70 

Silver Hair 76 

The Old Brown House 79 

What you know, according to Society, you must 

Muzzled Know ' 82 



Index. 

PAGE. 

The Dreams that Fade 86 

A Modern Pharisee 88 

Lines Snogested on hearing of Lincoln's Assassi- 
nation , 93 

Woman" s Sphere 90 

On the Death of an Old Lady 98 

Haunts and Habitants of the Forest ... 101 

Lines to a Beautiful Boy 104 

Time Leads the Years 106 

The Waning Summer 108 

Deacon Abinadab's opinion on Female Sufferage. 110 

War, and its Heroes 117 

Thoughts Glejin'd in the Stubble 120 

Human Wants and Human Hunters 123 

How Old? ....126 

To my Sister 128 

The Shrines, the Golden Calf and the Worshipers. 130 

Let Me Sleep 134 

Ode to the Beautiful Waters of Oconomowoc 137 

Bone of Contention 139 

Facts and Fancies 153 

Life's Mysteries 156 

To the Parents of a Young Man who accidentally 

shot himself 157 

From Stubble to Market 159 

Postscript 164 

L:ist but not Least 168 



SALUTATORY 



The publication of this collection was not pionipted 
by conceit in its merits, but by a financial crisis, wliicli 
compels us to use every talent — mental and physical — 
to win bread. The world owes it to no one — in our 
estimation — who is not willing- to work for it (if able). 

In no city but Chicago would we offer these effu- 
sions; for within her limits individuals (with one 
talent) can find the way open to success — even to com- 
peting with those who possess five. Her philanthro- 
py, patronage and enterprise are broad, deep, powerfal. 
Beggared by fire, redeemed by the bounty of the world, 
she is queen over more loyal hearts than any other 
city of the Union. 

In such a field — where thousands have felt the need 
of charity — one can offer their wares, believing it is 
honorable to strive, even though you are mentally or 
physically weak. Thus guided by faith, we offer this 
book, written for pastime in idler hours and bettei- 
days. If found worthy of criticism, we shall not avoid 
it ; if fairly jjfiven, it is to a writer the stepping-stime 
to success and will be the only favor asked by 

THE AUTHOR. 



PEN SKELETONS OF THE BRAIN. 



y^' OULD 1 invoke, by prayer or thought divme. 

Some favored bard, in this or ancient time, 
To drop his mantle o'er me, with the power, 
I might win fame, in this my natal hour. 
It might seem vain, should I attempt the prize — 
But then the bait before these longing eyes 
Inspires my muse to step ati easy measure, 
And try my talent for this golden treasure. 

All cannot win, however much their pains, 
For still the many show some lack of brains . 
The mind, like mother earth, is full of seeds ; 
Too rapid growth bears ever rankest weeds. 
The rarest blossom is the century plant — 
Thoughts of a lesser growth would pass for rant. 
Judged by this standard, few would ever brave. 
Or launch their frail bark on the crested wave. 

For the old classics, with their ancient lore, 
Would strand them quickly on some treacherous 

shore . 
O'er-ride their logic with their graver wit. 
And send them down to Hades in a fit. 



Skeletons of the Brain. 

But Greek and Latin are not now our need — 
We have less brains and more of dolts to feed. 
Thus, modern writers have out-crop'd the grass, 
And spread their foolscap greenness near the glass. 
Daring the classic eye of every fellow 
Whose wine of wisdom is both rare and mellow. 

Gold tempts the diamond pen t)f thought to write 

for glory — 
Many for bread do rack their brains to write a story. 
No gleam of truth must lurk beneath the fiction. 
With no grammatical mistake in point of diction. 
Just thirty pages must the story cover, 
Debarred acceptance if there's any over. 
Could thoughts but flow as easy as this ink, 
What pearls of wisdom would my pen here link. 

But when 1 write, and scratch to write again. 

I feel by faith I never was ordained 

To scatter mustard-seed in earthly garden, 

Or win by literature not e'en a "Dolly Varden. " 

T is then I feel I'm doomed to loose my dinner, 
While on the anxious-seat for bread, a miserable 

sinner. 
1 know one-half the world are scribbling delusions. 

While truth is struggling for the right amid the dire 
confvisjop, 



Skeletons of the Brain. 5 

But what's the odds, if all the world is happy as a 

lark, 
No matter if the preachers groan, and all the growlers 

bark. 
Fashions and follies rule the hour — logic s a bore ; 
The time 's too fast to stop and read the sage s lore. 
The Pilgrim Fathers did not have so much to read : 
Their heirs begin to look as though they d gone to 

seed. 

Why are the heads of young and old getting so bald ? 
Ah ! at the sight, when I look around, I grow 

appalled. 
Does wisdom on our steps attend ? or we progress? 
What makes the Anglo-Saxon race grow less and 

less? 
The poor, they hunt for daily bread — their greatest 

need. 
Are satistied if they are fed, and give no heed 
To all the styles that flaunt them by on dress parade, 
Who never think, as they whirl by, who sets the 

grade. 

All plan their life as though not born to die, 

Nor how the poor man with his si>ade will measure 

where they lie. 
How few in life do stop to heed , there is for those 

who revel, 
One place — where rich and poor alike must rest on 

common level. 



Skeletons of the Brain, 

Contamiuation in the touch o^ fingers white to 

serf, 
But his brown hands the last to smooth above them 

mother earth . 
How wise it is, distinctions here reach not beyond to 

God, 
Where alienated souls in life are one beneath the 

socJ. 



ODE to THE BELLS. 



r HE bells 1 The bells ! 
^^' How their music floats 

O'er the storm, 

And the soft summer airj; 
Tolling the grief of dying and dead — 

Calling the Christian to prayer, 

Chiming God's praise, 

On each Sabbath morn ; 
Ringing to work in the morning — 
Calling the Godly 
And Godless alike, 
Cheerfully, never in scorning. 

Echoing ever, 

The joy and the pain. 
Marriage bells gleefully ringing ; 

Joining the chorus. 
When warriors come — 

Of glory and victory singing, 



8 Ode to the Belli. 

"Who can withstand the charm 

Of your chimes. 
List not the tone for yoiir story ^ 

From the fair-haired child; 
J ust learning of life, 

To the old man aged and hoary ? 

Who can forget 

The wail on the air. 
Blended with sin and with sorrow. 

Pealed by her bells, 

As Chicago went down 
To her death and despair, on the morrow. 

Ring on forever, the weal and the woe. 

The matins for life without number 

Well for us all 't is not given to know, 

When or where we must slumber. 



NIGHT. 



IGHT folds her mantle o er the world, 
The balmy air grows sweet, 
While tired nature seeks repose — 

Rest for her weary feet. 
They ve pressed the heather since the dawn 

Of morning's early sun ; 
Are glad to note old Sol's decline — 

Their daily duties done. 

Life has no richer boon than night, 

To weary mortals given ; 
For sleep, the great restorer, brings 

To them an earthly Heaven. 
The fevered blood, cooled by the dews, 

Pulsates its course more slowly ; 
While folded in the arms of sleep. 

In quiet posture lowly. 

Some tossing on their couch of pain, 
When sultry suns do simmer — 

Count the slow hours and weary wait. 
To see the first star glimpier, 



Night. 

H ow cold they look, so far away, 
And yet their soft light stealing 

Among the feathery clouds above, 
Do harmonize the feeling. 

I watch your glow, these stilly nights, 

The restless world forgetting, — 
Ah ! you out-rival in your shine. 

The diamond in its setting. 
How still the air — hush'd every breath - 

Of wanton breezes playing. 
It seems as if the breath of prayer 

Around the world were straying. 

How beautiful is life — how sweet 

Her nights for peaceful slumber, 
When all forget, in quiet rest. 

Their sorrows here to number ; 
Far from the haunts of vice and sin. 

These clover-scented meadows. 
Bring to my soul a hushed repose, 

" Mid night" s cool evening shadows 



MY PATCHWORK QUILT. 



HE old-fashioned ''Quilt, " had a long life-lease. 
Bequeathed by the maker, to daughter or neice. 
The "Rising Sun," in pink, graced the best chamber- 
bed. 
While the "Double Irish-Chain" covered nightly 

two heads, ' 

That, like lion and lamb, lay peaceful together, 
With never a fear that one or the other, 
Had seen an "Affinity,'" or been sheepishly told 
That either, by mistake, were in the wrong fold. 

The Almanac hung on the wall by the Clock, 

To note the moon s changes — with anecdote stocked. 

The Family Bible, and Webster, not bridged, 

A little "Black-Strap," and a "Tee-total Pledge," 

Were the full of life needed, for stomach and soul. 

In these old-fashioned days for the Godly, I 'm told. 

Theharvest-moou came when the summer was spent, 

But to young, or old, winter brought no discontent, 

For no worm at the root caused tlieir roses to wilt. 

As they blended life's colors in a "Patchwork Quilt." 



12 My Patchwork Quilt. 

If their faces grew homely by toil, or the sun, 

They ignored the fact when their days work waS 

done, 
And, offering a prayer for blessings here sent, 
Loved and worked for each other in perfect content. 
All the "Olives" that came, by their Bible foretold, 
Each one found a welcome within the home fold. 
With a fair show of girls, the rest of them boys. 
Swelled a good baker s dozen, to sweeten their joys. 
With ApiDles and Cider, and the boys making stilts. 
Brought the need, every year of a "Patchwork 

Quilt."' 

The wife spun and knit all the family socks, 

And the girls wove the cloth for dresses and smocks, 

The buzz of the spinning-wheel, and hum of the bee, 

With the "Katy-Did " notes in the old elm tree. 

Were the only sounds that disturbed the still air, 

And peace and content seemed to dwell everywhere. 

For newspaper then gave nightly no shocks, 

(^f the rise or the fall in cerals or stocks. 

And the "Old Pilgrim felt, on the "rock'' he had 

built, 
W^ould never come harm to his "Patchwork" or 

"Quilt." 



Mp Patchicork Quilt. 13 

The corn-house well filled ; in his Stocking- Bank, 

money ; 
Plenty of rye. and hives filled with honey. 
Warmth in his heart towards God and the poor, 
Giving to all who sought alms at his door. 
Content to live by the sweat of his labors, 
Loving his own wife better than his neighbors'. 
How smart he looked, as to " meeting " he went, 
And the tone of his voice, harmoniously blent. 
For, true to lifes principles, he felt no guilt, 
And his dreams were untroubled, neath the ''Patch- 
work Quilt." 



PART SECOND OF THE NEW VERSION, 
AND THE '^OLD, OLD STORY.* 

^ HE Past and the Present no comparison know — 
The men live to fault-find — the women for show, 
And the next best thing, as a matter of course. 
Is a Civil Suit to get a Divorce. 
For Man, years ago, did print this fable : 
That Woman was mentally weak — not able 
To win by her brain, neither dime or a collar — 
Had no need of a purse, and seldom a dollar ; 
Contented should live, in the house Jack Built, 
And merrily sing, with no Patchwork Quilt. 



14 My Patchxoork Quilt. 

if a couple get mairied, their lioney-inoon life 

Is soured, too oft, with another man' s wife. 

Just read in the papers, made up by a male, 

Of the gossip and slang, on poor woman frail- — 

How he howls about dress, her ties, and her hair, 

Her bustle and hoops drive them all to despair. 

Racking his brain, and wasting his taper. 

To growl, when her bustle makes sale for his paper . 

He forgets, when he swells in linen so nice, 

His father wore home-spun, and a cotton shirt — thrice. 

Comparing notes on the twain, the price of his tiles, 

Compels her to rejuvenate her old styles. 

While his games with a cue, cards, women and wines. 

Swell the drafts on his banker — not the family he 
dines. 

Her allowance — a third — for supplies and the crib, 

His— two-thirds — for society, dog, horse and quid. 

No wonder she sighs (like Maud Muller), when told. 

Her charms they have faded, her face growing old, 

As she ponders the words, still thoughts lie deep. 

Cooing sweet lullabies to baby asleep. 

No wonder she sighs for old-fashioned ways — 
One shirt for three Sundays and one for week days — 
For a man who is willing to work for his bread, 
Who would smile at the advent of each baby-head. 
What cares the mother for diamonds and puffs, 
And all of the shams which society stuffs? 



My Patchioork Quilt. 15 

Facing- the flattered, with compliments neat. 
Plenty of dress, with too little to eat ; 
Plenty of show, and plenty of shame, 
Everything mix'd. and no one to blame. 



Woman's life is made up of patches and piece, 
A mixture of dress, of scrubbing and grease, 
With threads of fault-finding, strung in together, 
The wear and the tear, 'underpinned with sole leather ; 
A smattering of music, of Dutch and of French, 
Then next in the kitchen, working just like a wench. 
Smoothing the linen of husband' s shirt-front, 
Who, abroad, "smiles blandly" — at home, says J 

•'wont ' 
Answer the demands you make on my purse, 
Yourself and your brats are a bane and a curse, 

If life is a burden to woman, what then? 

With one way to earn money, only lawful to men ; 

And that, too, because they are selfish in lust, 

Daring not for a moment each other to trust : 

Coveting mostly ; their Bibles not read — 

But a " sheep' s-eye " at his, puts a hole in some head. 

Who growls the most if the babies are many, 

And wishes to God they had less or not any ? 



16 My Patchwork Quilt. 

Who has tempted the woman, since Adam's first 

birth, 
And scattered the plague-spots that darken the 

earth ? 
What becomes of the babies '? Who answers the cry ? 
Is it always the mother? and never great I ? 

Who buys with gold the price of a name, 

And leaves to his victim a lite-time of shame '• 

Who supports all the wrong? betrays all that's right? 

I ask you these questions, like a Christian, to-night ! 

When you rail about women, you should not be loth 

To admit, there are many betrayed by man's troth. 

While ranking the masses together, I can 

Show women outrivalling, in courage, the men. 

While you think it her fate to sew and to tuck, 

He who faces a cannon does not always show pluck. 

MORAL. 

In truth, there is virtue to do and to dare, 

Tlie right, in our youth, while blossoms are fair, 

'• For they who belie a good name, are worse 

Than the thief, who purloins your money or purse.' 

'What if " Patchwork ■' to-day is much out of date ? 

To mend many morals may not be too late. 

The color of kindness to laborers in deed, 

Would piece out a friendship for some fr^ture iieet^, 



My Patchwork Quilt. 17 

While the '' Double Irish Chain" of love for the cook. 

Would lessen desire from our pantry to hook. 

And the blocks of contentment, window-sashed all 

together, 
Would keep us good-natured in all kinds of weather . 
The "Autograph Piece," sent in by a friend, 
Would remind us of kindness, and help us to lend. 
And the "Log Cabin" style, of pioneer life, 
Should refresh old memories, unvexed by their strife. 
While the "Pure White," outlining the orange and 

blue, 
A reminder to ever be faitliful and true. 
The " Basket," a lesson of frugality in store. 
Turning, empty-handed, no one from our door. 
And the " Star " of our pride, in the room overhead, 
Would be a haven of rest to some weary one led. 
Then the milk of human-kindness would never be 

spilt, 
If we pieced good- will together like my •' Patchwork 

Quilt." 



THANKSGIVING IN 1800 AND 1878. 



^EW England ! New England ! 
o\ ^ How bright with good cheer. 

Are thy homes, when the day of thy pride- 
Thanksgiving ! is here. 
There are great turkey gobblers. 

And pumpkin-pies, big, 
With a coffee-brown glow 

On a nicely stuffed pig ; 
Chicken pies, the size 

Of the largest tin jjans — 
With oysters, and turtle soup, 

x\nd plenty of clams ; 
Cakes, cheese and cookies, 

With tarts, I delcare, 
And six kind of pies, 

To make the meal square. 
Nuts from the tropics, 

The choicest of wines — 
Not forgetting the cider 

When New England dines , 



Thanksgiving in 1800 and 1873. 

All kinds of preserves, 

Which I came near forgettin*;. 
With jams, and with jellies, 

On the table are setting. 
Every kind of a vegetable 

Raised on the farm, 
Makes life here pleasant. 

And the Thanksgiving cliarm 
Is sweetened by knowing 

You 've laid up a store. 
And thankful you come 

To pray, and adore, 
The wife, with her jewels 

And laces so fine, 
With rare old china, 

From off which you dine ; 
Quaint old silver. 

Solid and pure, 
Made, like the Pilgrims, 

To we;ir and endure. 
Great hospitable hearths. 

Whose fires, ever bright, 
Shed its glow for the rich 

And the poor just alike, 
With the warmest corner. 

For the dearest one kept. 
And the old easy-chair. 

Where grandmother slept. 



20 Thanksgiving in 1800 and 1873. 

The patriarch's word 

Was his bond in a trade, 
For he never tried 

His debts to evade. 
Such was life in New England, 

Not fifty years since ; 
Comparing notes with them, 

It makes me here wince. 
For our Thanksgiving days 

Are quite shoddy grown, 
And I fear that our anthems, 

Though lofty in tone, 
Pealed by the organs 

On the soft air, ' ,"' 
Reach not to God 

Like the breath of their prayer. 



LOVE IS LIBERTY AND ABIDETH WITH 
SLAVERY. 



fOVE came with life to nature" s first born. 
To abide here — a joy forever. 
And nothing can change, tlio' wide we may range, 

Or the wealth of a pure love sever. 
Tho' the world may flout, the skeptic may doubt. 

It still lives for saint and for sinner. 
And, because it is strong, will overcome wrong. 
Victorious at last as the winner. 

It dawns for the mother, like breath of the morn. 

When the child her Maker has given 
Lies asleep on her arm, unconscious of harm, 

This mother-love never is riven. 
No matter what changes life brings to the pair. 

Nor how wide apart they may wander. 
She cannot forget the soft silken hair. 

Or how he daily grew stronger. 

In weal or in woe, as the years tlide apace, 

The lullaby sung o er the cradle. 
Has a charm for the twain, that lulls all pain. 

To stifle which nothing is able. 



22 Love is Liberty and Ahideth with Slavery. 
Who ever forgot, disgraced or in crime, 

Forsaken by father or brother, 
Tho all were estrangd, and CA^erything changed. 

He still had his God and his mother. 
Love came with the song the Pilgrims first sung, 

In spite of a monarch controling, 
Hym'd to the storm, by freedom's first-born, 

When the wild waves and billows were rolling, 
Toss'd on the breast of Old Ocean's white crest, 

Like children they wept for each other, 
Tender to feel, but fired with a zeal. 

Tyranny never could smother. 
To these hearts brave, o'er their life on the wave. 

Came visions of hope ever stealing. 
That on foreign strand, they once more would stand, 

God's love nevermore here concealing. 
This love proved so strong, that might had to yield, 

And the minions of monarch's now slumber, 
Unshrived by a priest, where death did release, 

Though doubling the Pilgrims in number. 
Love of country endures the changes of time. 

Will bask in the smile of no other. 
That was nursed a free-born in tempest and storm, 

With Liberty's God for its mother. 
No sublimer truths has history taught 

Than is \Yritten on wave, rock or ages, 
And the pen is not made or diamond tipped yet. 
That can write all the whys on mans pages. 



Lone is Ijiherty w/id Abideth with tilavery. '33 

Love has spared the slave from death and the grave. 

From wild beast, when stealthily hiding 
To prove the truths taught, to them in their youth. 

That God and His love was abiding. 
No trial could shake, so firm was their trust. 

Their belief that this nation would sever 
The riveted bands, corroding their hands, 

And leave them untrammel'd forever. 

Though their Bethlehem Star had not glimmer d yet. 

Their patience could bide its probation, 
The dawn of the morn, the refuge from storm. 

Was Lincoln and his great Proclamation ! 
That came like a whirlwind, sweeping away 

Old claims, grown rusty for ages. 
Now doomed to despair, lost on the free air. 

With no life but in old musty pages. 

Avaunt, then, ye doubters of a love that gave birth 

To a nation's repentance in sorrow. 
A faith newly born is never forlorn, 
' With God and the love-lighted morrow. 
To those who rail of love and its dearth, 

And think we all hate here each other. 
I will point them to God, the faith of the Slaves, 

The Pilgrims, and love of a Mother, 



TO THE FIRST BABY-BOY— GREETING. 



[OY to the dearest, 
Happy and blest 
With thy sweet baby-boy, 
Asleep on thy breast. 

No dearer love 

Has God ever given — 
Mother's warm breast 

Is baby's own Heaven. 

How your hearts throb 
With joy at his birth. 

Closer the bond 

That unites you on earth. 

How you clasp 

The bewildering elf, 
No idle dream — 

He belongs to yourself. 

Nay, dear mother, 

The love- work is thine. 
To train thy boy 

Ji'or 3, l^olier sjirjiie. 



To the First Baby-Boy — Greeting. '-^5 

God, in bis love. 

Has lent, not given : 
These little angels 

Are wanderers from Heaven i 

May the bright dreams 

You weave for the boy^ 
In the far future 

Be free from alloy; 

Now to your hopes 

Tie is fair and as bright, 
As the glow of the sun 

On a sweet summer niglit. 



THE CHIEF OF *49. 

His Covenant — How Kept. The wail of the winds in 
the Rocky Mountain pines only answer. 



WHE brave and the fair pass out in the wold* 

I To meet on this earth again never ; 
And the years glide on, like a dream that is told. 

While time, it abideth forever. 
Who can reck of the way, the weal or the woe. 

Of those by one fireside tended : 
To us popr mortals not given to knoM^ 

What fate in our lives will be blended. 
The paths looked fair our feet might tread. 

We saw not the grey of the morning ; 
Moving on each day, by some new fancy led. 

That was ever the wayside adorning. 
But the clouds gathered fast, though seeming to 
creep. 

The homestead with shadows was shaded ; 
And the brown heads pillowed on one loving breast. 

To all but their fond mother faded . 
No hopes, fond mother, were dearer than thine. 

That went out with children's to-morrow ; 
Yet thy loving eye saw not the tall, dreary pines 

That wailed forth thy heart's greatest sorrow. 



The Chief of '49. 27 

Thou was not to know that fate had decreed, 

On Sierra s highest lone mountain ; 
Thy heart for the eldest born ever should bleed, 

Whose fevered 4ips failed at the fountain . 
Fame for the hero who led this brave band, 

To work out his pathway to glory. 
Is echoed for Fremont, all over the land, 

But to you, what a sorrowful story. 
He only is brave who shares with the tried 

His bread with his comrade in danger ; 
List ! the wail of the pines, on that lone mountain side 

Whisper : Fremont was alien and stranger. 
Thy brave boy died, with the gun by his side. 

That drew blood from the fleet deer bounding : 
And that desolate band gathered round to divide, 

E'er that lonely shot's echo had sounded. 
One piece for himself he kept from the spoil. 

On that last day of hardship and sorrow ; 
His path was beset with danger and toil, 

And food might not come with the morrow. 
God and the stars only know when he slept, 

Uncaress'd by a wife or a mother ; 
But the few who survived that disastrous trip. 

Say, to them, he was more^ than a brother. 
Fremont may be brave, where fame points ahead. 

To win by his daring some honor ; 
But what says the world, to the dying and dead, 

Qe left in distress, by dishonor, 



^8 The Chief 0/ 49. 

The promises made were sacred, not kept, 

Bold mountaineers scorned his endeavor ; 
Had he stuck to those brave men, 

They would not have slept 
In those wild mountain passes forever. 
Their desertion and death, without food or guide, 

Was glossed by a plausible story ; 
For the duty most plain, was ignored to gain. 

And win by new ventures more glory. 
Fame is the great prize that lures many on, 

Oft chills all the better emotion ; 
But the Giver of all, who the world spat upon, 

Was the type of a higher devotion. 
Thus thy boy who braved the tempest and cold, 

Half starving, divided his dinner ; 
Showed a braver heart than his chieftain so bold, 

And proved himself less of a sinner. 

That fond mother's hair, so silvered by time, 

Nearly spun her earthly probation ; 
The truth long concealed, the fate of her son, 

Overwhelm ning its sad revelation. 
Despair at his lieart, through danger and storm, 

For weeks in those mountains so hoary ; 
He cheered on his comrades, way-worn and forlorn. 

Such deeds pave the pathway to glory. 



Lovingly inscribed to the mother whose eldest son died of starvation 
in the Rocky Mountains, with eleven other brave naen, abaqdoned to 
their fate, in 1849, by John C Fremont, 



TO MRS. L. 



jHILE drinking my tea to-nigt, by myself. 
And nibbling away at a fritter. 
My husband walked in w-ith a long, knowing phiz. 

And passed, without comment, a letter. 
How happens? it is torn? I asked with a frown. 

While my face wore the look of a lighter. 
"Oh," answered my spouse, "I read not a word: 

Only peeped at the name of the writer." 

"Curiosity, of course," 1 replied, with a sigh, 

'' Was a legacy left only to women, 
While never a son, since Adam was born, 

Has stumbled like Eve. in their sinning. 
1 would not venture a moral to point. 

But tjuietly kept my tea drinking, 
Yet nevertheless, Mrs. L.. I confess 

My brain grew crazy with thinking. 

How we poor mortals are tempted and tos^iM 

On lifes heaving sea of commotion. 
While we dream other Innks ave more trail than our 
own. 

Though perchance you| think it my notiou, 



30 To Mrs. L. 

If it is, I shall lay the charj^-e at your door, 

Nor admit it might be the fritters. 
For a very weak brain is made weaker, you know. 

By an old black bottle of bitters. 

Now, doctors 1 know, much given to drugs, 

No matter what country or clime. 
When they get nonplussed, depend on the nus, 

And make the weak stronger with wine. 
Some days I feel like Sampson — so strong — 

I annoy my friends with my visits ; 
Then again at the window, my long, doleful face 

Is suggestive of doctors and physics. 

Thus your long, loving letter, white-winged as the 
dove. 

Came down on my vision to-night', 
And the smile on my face, o'er the heart grew apace, 

For your loves and your dreams are so bright. 
May they ever be thus, no shadow or care 

To darken the years as they glide, 
Then life's brightest page, in the grey of old age. 

Rich harvest will bear, far and wide. 

Forgotten the days, full of anguish and pain ? 

Dear friend, I never forget. 
Too many dark clouds have shadow'd life's path, 

They live in my rnemory yet, 



To Mm. 1j. 3I 

If all the dark days are remembered, why not 

The bright and silver-lined hours ; 
A bright, smiling face to a sick, famished heart. 

Is as sweet as the breath of spring flowers. 

Despair, like a pall, oft shadows the room 

Where the sick moan the long hours away, 
How little we think of the few idle words. 

Causing pain no skill can allay. 
Your face, photographed by the camera of mind, 

Gleams out mid the bustle and strife, 
And I dream in the sun of the good work you done 

When you taught me a new love of life. 



GET FOR'ARD, .tANE ! 



*' Say, Sis, I believe I never did tell 
About my trip into Cairo ? 

If you 've got time to listen, all well. 
As the weather outside is to zero. 
"Outward bound'' for Egypt, you know, "buying 
corn,' 

A cold and bad night for travel, 
1 stepped into the depot, feeling forlorn. 

For a wheat spec had dwindled my gavel. 

" Here, flat on the floor, I saw a queer siglit — 

Of old shawls made into bundles ; 
And I stood for a moment, confused by the light, 

To look, while my moustache I fondled. 
1 concluded some hovel had spilled a whole nest — 

Counted thirteen, all told, of the brats ; 
They slept very sound on the hard floor, at rest — 

How I roared when I looked at their hats I 

*' A little old woman, with nut-brown face, 
Wore a bonnet, the size of our scuttle. 

Devoid of a flower or a bit of stray lace, 
And beside her an old junk bottle. 



Ge I Fo ?•* ard, Jane! 33 

The dad of the crowd, his face deeply hid 

In a plug, wiih hair like a bur ; 
Beside him, asleep, was a kuee-patclied kid, 

Holding string that was 'tached to a cur. 

**The train-bell sounded— ''All aboard!" cried the 
boss. 

Great God ! how their Xoah Ark tumbled, 
As, waked by the roar of incoming train. 

The whistle, and wheels as they rumbled. 
The old man gathered his kids ; the dame 

Her bags of lunch and the bottle. 
** Get for'ard there, Jane !" the old man cried, 

** See ! the engineers hand 's on the throttle I" 

*' * I vow I' said daddy, 'Jonathan Greeu 

Does pester me more 'n the whole lot I' 
liut the face in the coal-scuttle could not be seen. 

As down in the seats they all sot. 
I knew she was worried, tho" dressed not in silk, 

By the way she cuddled her twins ; 
And the old junk-bottle, full of sweet milk. 

' I swear ' I had quoted it gin, 

"Jonathan Green was found in the rear "with the crowd, 
Bumping around after new-fangled notions. 

"^You allers was snoopin',' said his sire, aloud, 
As he collared his pedals to motion. 

2 



3-i Get For'ardj Jane I 

Tlien out came the luncli-bag, tied with tow.strinrjs, 
Running over with corn-bread and bacon, 

\\\i\\ links of Dutch sausage for each little thing, 
Although you may think mc mistaken, 

*'I became quite enamored with the little brown fi\ce- 

Not rough, but kind ways of the pair, 
And I said to myself, as I staid my slow pace, 

Love in life makes a poor meal square. 
I questioned : ' Dear sir, what caused you to move, 

With so many small lambs in your flock '?" 
Ah, Sis, I forgot liis swallow-tail coat '. 

His neck in an old-fashioned stock. 

" He replied to my query : — * tlis Karliney state 

Had not any schools — only cotton ; 
With these little chaps, came family fate 

To leave institution so rotten. 
His soul for his country was hungered — no love 

In the South — "t was full of disorder ; 
He was looking for land for his squabs and his dove. 

Where the flag lioared still — o'er the border.' 

'' I forgot I was soured by losses, I declare ; 

The cloud passed away and the mist. 
For those quaint old poeple had babies so fair, 

That I did not shun e'en a kiss. 



Get For'avd, Jane I '>") 

TliLis tliey came with the flock, as they 'reckoned' it 
best, 

Before any more were born, 
And there, with our faces toward Egypt w^e met, 

He to raise, and I to buy — corn. 



THE MOTH AND THE RUST f 

OR, 

Do we Win if we Buy. 



We buy and we build, but enter not in, 

No matter how fine we may model ; 
Adrift on the tide of life's ocean wide. 

In spite of sail, anchor or paddle. 
Fame j;litters for some — the star of their dream, 

High over man's steeples so tall ; 
Ah ! he wakes to find the moth and the rust 

Is creeping — has crei)t over all ! 

Some buy the Avorld's friendship with gold and its 
dross. 
Some cater with dinners and wine ; 
So long as it lasts, they have many friends, 

Who ever are ready to dine. 
Let misfortune overtake such a man in the race, 

Do his friends come then at his call ? 
Ah ! no ; they have gone ; the moth and the rust 
Is creeping — has crept over all ! 

Others delve and toil with muscle to win, 

To keep naked want from their door, 

And yet never find one-half what they seek, 
In all the world s great, goodly store. 



Tlie Moth and the Hust. 87 

It may be no fault of the muscles that strive, 
But the shops where the devil has stall, 

Has tempted too ofc ; there Llie moth and the rust 
Is creeping — has crei>t over all ! 

The sailor, far out from the shore, on the main, 

Sings merrily his sea-songs loud, 
^ever minding the wiud, though a tempest it blow, 

Or a watery grave and no shroud. 
His life on the wave, so careless and free. 

In mizzen-mast, listener for call, 
Ah ! he sees not below : the moth and the rust 

Is creeping — has crept over all I 

Those adventurous spirits that dared the wild shores 

Of Afric and cold Polar seas ! 
We have waited so long for tidings from them, 

Only rumors come back on the breeze. 
Far from civilized haunts, deep mysteries to solve. 

Not so far but God did them call, 
Where, the wild ivy-vines, the moth and the rust 

Is creeping — has crept over all ! 

i 
Many think, on life's wave it is better to drift 

With the current, if one would succeed ; 
I prefer a stout oar, with a strong self-will 

To back, wlijen I find there is used. 



38 The Moth and the Rant. 

From tlie follies of fashion that wreck fondest hopes, 
Cer the homes of thousands spreads her pall, 

If you dare not say no, the moth and the rust 
Will be creeping— will cover you all ! 

Others draw nice distinctions, think it quite impolite 

To refuse to take wine with a friend ; 
Such have business enough, in a few short years 

Their habits and morals to mend. * 
The little word no, is buckler and shield, 

A penhant for low inast or tall ; 
I flaunt it toward fashion, where moth with the rust 

Is creex^ing — has crept over all ! 

The fair and the frail, whose life on the pave. 

Is shrouded in darkness and night, 
On a fond mother's breast, were pillowed to rest, 

And of home were the love and the light. 
If God had no love for sinners like these, 

Their chances for Heaven would be sma?l. 
For the scorn of the world, full of moth and the rust, 

Is creeping — has crept o'er them all ! 

4 

The Doctor, from pill-bags, will dose you with drugs ; 

If you dare ask the name, as a lesson 
Jle will give you a shrug, a look of the eye, 

And—the ''Secret of our great Profession."' 



The Moth and tJie Rust. 30 

But the old woman's "yarbs" v>'itli the bottled white 
pills, 

Knocked the cock'd-hats of 'pathy so tall ; 
Thus new revelations, through the moth and the rust, 

Like trichince, is creeping o'er all ! 

The Preacher, in striving God's will here to teach, 

By moulding doxology to creeds, 
Is getting all mixed, mid the brambles and vines, 

And can't find his fruits for the weeds. 
Schooled on the broad prairies of these Western 
wilds, 

1 am stifled where Pharisees bawl ; 
O'er tlie Hell of their faith : the moth and the rust 

Is creeping — will creep over all ! 

Thoughts ever divine, were stamp' d on the brain, 

When nature's great problem was born ; 
And the creeds of man's faith are melting away, 

In the God-love that yet will adorn. 
The serpent — his slime, sloth, moth and the rust, 

For ages, on terrestial ball. 
Have been at their work, until it has seemed 

They were creeping — had crept over all ! 

But the great human truths struggle on and on, 
Toward a light that is dawning for them ; 

For you can't stop the growth of reason in a soul. 
If you feed it with bigotry of men. 



40 The JUoih and the Rust 

This trust, newly born, long a slumbering germ, 
Has led nie these thoughts to recall : 

That with light, truth and virtue, the moth and the 
rust. 
The' creeping, could not cover it all I 

Though the mammon we worship, you may think 
will endure, 

But time yet will show this a fable ; 
For an unsold soul, unalloyed with gold. 

In the world, shall yet turn the table.' 
Truth steps to the tune— grand march of the age, 

And gold must with Puseyism fall, 
*' Let there be Light," for the moth and the rust, 

Is creeping — will creep over all I 

Then condemn not the toiler on sea or on land — 

From saints who ^\ith sinners may meet; 
You can still buy and build, but God in good time 

Will ''sift all the chaff from the wheat." 
With love, broad aud deep as the boundless sea, 

Gou's charitas mantle will fall 
O'er the human race (where no moth with the rust 

Will be creeping) — to cover them all ! 



DOG-DAYS. 



^ HE dog-days were heavy 
No breeze in the town 
Old Sol's Auoiist rays 

Would melt a man down 
The office was dusty, 

Insurance ran low, 
And I thought that a change 

Would rest me, "you know. ' 

So, with wife, dog and babies, 

And gun, at my back, 
With hamper well-fill d. 

For the country I packed 
On hand just in time, 

At the ring of the bell, 
With a longing desire 

The fresh hay to smell. 
Every nerve unstrung 

By the bustle and din, 
And months of hard labor 

My dollar to win. 
I dare not look back, 

After drinkin,;;- my malt, 
Lest, like Lots wife, I turn 

To a '' pillar of salt." 



42 l)og-Days. 

The fields looked greener 

Than ever before, 
As I left far behind 

Each debtor and bore. 
And the staff of life, 

Piled in heaps 'neath the sun, 
^Made me feel the pleasures 

Of life just begun. 

For I knew the chickens 

Hid in the stubble ; 
I could bag them in plenty. 

Without any trouble. 
Home, wife and babies 

Are nice, in their wa.y, 
And a man 's lost without them, 

I ■ m f lank here to say. 

But the real gist of life, 

If you want to have fun, 
Is a good dog, trained 

To a breech-loading gun. 
Leaving wife and babies 

To frolic together, 
I strap" d on my game-bag. 

To brave wind and weather. 

Feeling more sure 

Of the game I could win, 
Than the one you call " I3os-ton, " 

Where you put up the tin . 



Dog-Days. 

And tlie liasli tastes better — 

I admit bore the ti nth, 
Than it does after dealing 

The jack or the deuce. 

Game, won "by a shot 

At billiards or cards, 
Makes the brain unsteady, 

And a man's life bard. 
But a bead on a bird 

Steadies brain, nerve and muscle, 
And helps to win, manfully, 

In life's earnest tussle. 

A dapper young lad. 

With news from the hunt. 
Proceeds to the back door, 

Not daring the front. 
And bowing the compliments 

Of donor, says : " Here 
Are chickens provided,'' 

To m.ake you good cheer. 

'' Bah !"' saj's one, 

"I m tired of the sight of these birds. 
*' How they stink ! ' responded 

The cook, of a third. 
•' Neighbor P may like them, 

I want none to-day, 
Please hand them in 

As you pass by lier way." 



44 Dog- Day a. 

The youngster replied : 

*' Her cook lias left town, 
Her house all torn up, 

Unfluled her gown. 
Some leggar, along 

On this road I may meet, 
"With neither a shilling, 

Or chiclicn to eat." 

Another small lown. 

Where the quality meet, 
Whose mornings are slow, 

And eveninj^s are fleet, 
With nothing to do, 

But growl and to play, 
Because they feed low, 

At live dollars a day. 
To these starvlings, came chickens 

Packed nicely in ice. 
Whose landlord "smiled blandly," 

They opened so nice. 
But this "Heathen Chinee," 

The gift was so great, 
Expressed his disgust, 

At the cost of the freight. 

Six dollars to pay, 

With sixty to win ; 
Of birds, with extras. 

Whose price was a sin, 



Dog-Dayn. 45 

Makes the soul of this sinner. 

Offer this prayer : 
Thxit the orphans be fed 

By these kind liuiiters" care. 

And the gift, as an incense, 

^J'o God will be sweet, 
For feeding the fatherless, 

Yea, giving them meat, 
And the dainty bit spurned, 

At the back-door of wealth. 
Will yield for the homeless, 

The rich blood of health- 
ily moral is this : 

When you hunt for pleasuio. 
Send no game to those 

Whose overflown measure. 
Makes the gift seem stale, 

And cause you to think, 
The birds sent in friendship, 

Have an unpleasant stink- 

For dog-days are dusty 

And musty, you know; 
And people, like flies. 

Will buzz and will blow. 
Should I tell all I know, 

And where I have been, 
It might make a fuss 

For this *'Old Pkajrie He»." 



FROM CAUSE TO EFFECT. 



fATURE has hiddeii her truths in the deep, 
^ ^ 'Neath the soil, the eddies and whirl ; 
And since we were born for mutual help, 

We should strive to learn of the world. 
Yield not to misfortune, but surmount them like nieu. 

Good debts become bad if not call'd, 
''Most things have two handles," the wise way the 
best 
Is to ring at the door of front hall. 

For benefits are apt to grow old betinics, 

But injuries are classed with long livers ; 
Thus we never know "till we pump the well dry," 

How much water we need for these fevers. 
Family quarrels, "you know," and religious disputes. 

Unfortunately, know no restraint : 
1 1 is hard to decide what physic to give ; 

Stirring bile oft hurts the comjjlaint. 

" Carnal sins proceed from fullness of food/' 
And drunkenness makes man here a brute ; 

To please worldly fools you must dance like a clown. 
Dress like them, in a ring-speckled suit ; 



From Cause to Effect. 47 

To swell ill prosperity, you have to keep pace 
With the times — more often to steal ; 

If you feed all the "big-bufjs" that flatter you most, 
You must bag up a good lot of m«a], 

'* Public men should have public minds, "" or the world 

Will learn, when they pay the tlrst cost. 
The tax list is raised to preserve private things. 

Or the greenbacks that went with the Boss. 
Mr. Smoothface will say^ you ar« " Gaged '^ to the 
l)lace — 

^*Ask yourself" if the question be true ; 
For it may prove that he lias an** axe to grind," 

Those who have not will smell out your due. 

Some, under adversity, shrink like thin pork. 

Not killed in the '^full of the moon.''' 
And without any pot to boil their lean stuff. 

The high-toned would style them a loon- 
Money is the ^'servant of some,"' but the master of 
more — 

An e-gg from which viee here is hatched ; 
If yon have no conscience, but can flourish a pen. 

Soon your way to society can scratchy 

Bat dare to be good, whatever surround, 

Yon will find there 's a bane to enjoyment, 

W?ule the nabob, who swells in the piirple he stole, 
Will bid 3^on seek further employment. 



48 Fvom Cause to Effect. 

** Courtiers like jugglers," confederate with knaves, 
To impose on and steal from the fools,; 

They need a few months of State prison diet, 
And trade lessons with good honest tools. 

Thus I envy no one whose sumptuous styles. 

Around them they loftily fold, 
For sleep to the weary is sweeter hy far^ 

If their conscience has never been sold. 
But I chei'ish the buds of pity for all,. 

May they bloom to beauty here yet, 
As I by the wayside gather thoughts with the rose. 

Developed by storms and the wet. 



MY HUMMING-BIRD S NEST 

(Lovingly inscribed to mj pets — Angie,Ha.ruy. GsACiEand Bubdie.) 



ci^MID the woods, where I have scrambled, 

&X The prettiest trophy of my rambles 

Was a little nest. The owl may tell, 

And I may own it now as well. 

I admit I stole it — from the tree, 

And I confess it here — to thee . 

But then, it was so cunning ! my 

And hung suspended— oh ! so high ! 

I thought — ah ! could I only climb, 

This pretty nest would soon be mine. 

Thus, in my great desire to win, 

I forgot to covet was a sin . 

While the humming-bird, the wee'st nestling, 

Ne'er thought rude hands would be molesting 

Her tiny cradle, neatly made. 

And hid so high, 'mid leaf and shade. 

She, on her mission quite intent — 

And I, absorbed by charm it lent 

To idle hour. It was so funny— 

To watch her weesome ways so bonny. 



oO My Humming-Bird s JYest. 

And thus I saw her dailj', coming 
On bufsy wing, while often sunning 
Among my flowers, scarce touching feet, 
While sipping flowers ever sweet. 
I noticed, too, she came and went 
With cobwebs, pickd from off the fence ; 
Where 'er the spider spun with care, 
She gathered every bit was there. 

I was bewildered — the little thief — 
Her actions, sure, were past belief; 
What could she want with silken threads, 
That thus she gathered spider webs ? 
She came and went, on pinions still, 
Working for love —her own free will — 
And I intent with eye to see, 
Traced her at last to locust tree. 

She brought such bits of bark and featli?r- 

With cobwebs wove them all together — 

No baby-crib was half so neat 

As the one she wove with bill and feet. 

On tiny twig it was deftly hung, 

By June's soft breezes gently swung ; 

From cotton-tree she picked the moss, 

To make the inside white and soft. 



My lluinmifig-Bird/s Nest, 51 

For seven days I watched her work, 

While I around the tree did lurk, 

To peep behind the leafy screen, 

AVhen I saw two eggs just 'like white beans. 

Dear little builder, it is not fair 

To take your nest, so cunning — rare — 

For you will miss your summer pleasure ! 

But I ! ah, I ! shall have your treasure. 

In darker days my heart may tune 

To memories of a by-gone June. 

Then once again, the morning hours, 

With the cool, soft air, the flagrant tlowers, 

W^ill backward turn the llight of time. 

And I shall see the wild woodbine ; 

The sunny porch, the easy-chair. 

The pleasant life so free from care ; 

The loves and fiiendships, warm and kind, 

Forever kept in heart and mind. 

These will, at sight of thee, unfold, 

And gleam like diamonds set in gold. 

The little children of my neighbors. 
The interchange of friendly favors ; 
Neglected toys, by barn and path. 
The frolics wild, and merry laugh ; 
The cookie-jar, where stray feet came, 
xVnd for each one, and "Buddie" claim' d ; 



My Humming- Bird's JSfest. 

The daily lunch I never missed, 

Not hnlf so much as morning kiss. 

Those summer joys are stiings of pearl, 

That bind about my busy world ; 

And oft to me, in silent hours. 

Come these little friends — the birds and flowers. 



GKACIE AND JUNIE.' 

{Sleeping.) 



^LEEPING, to wake on the morrow, 

cf Where the mornings are cloudless and bright ; 

Will thy souls, on pinions unfettered, 

Float outward and onward to\\ard light. 

Light for the mind, earth clouded, 

Eeason, long trammel d Ly fear ; 
Now mid the glow of new splendor, 

Feels the soul's "Title is clear." 

Sees, as the earth slowly fadeth. 

How weak was the faith and the trust, 

In doubting the gloiious Giver 
Of life could be ever unjust. 

Sleeping, like buds of the forest, 

Deep "neath the mother-earth hid, 

To waken to bloom and new beauties, 

When the germ-life shall lift the soft lid. 



u4 " Gracie and Junic. 

At the call of the moulder, whose labor 

Is ever so still and j) 'ofound, 
No ear evei" catches the echoes, 

Tho' floating eternity round. 

J5ut the sonl and the bud hear the music, 

Symphonied by presence unseen ; 
Feeling touch of the fingers that guideth, 

Where ''living Avaters " make the pastures so 
green. 
Sleeping, these buds of your bosnm, 

Waiting the crown that adorns 
The brow of the pure, and to waken 

Where their souls will be pierced by no thorns. 

Tho' blighted the hopes earth cherished. 

Yet God in his love has fortold, 
Tlie "Promise is to you and your children," 

And of such "is the Heavenly fold.'" 

]May their spirits still smile o"er the shadows. 

Till tenderest memories impart ; 
" Thy wi'l, not ours, Oh, Father !' 

To sooth the despair of thy heart. 

One came in the June of the summer, 

When roses were budding to life. 
To brighten the ways that were thorny, 

Where trials were rankest and rife. 



" Grade and Janie.'' 

The other, dear Gracie, the darling I 
First olive that grew on the tree ; 

How brief the sweet joy of her presence ; 

Now the mound and the low-bending knee 

Their sheep is as sweet as the roses 

We cull when the summers are warm ; 

Then mourn not these buds of your household, 
Safe sheltered from blight or the storm. 



"TWEEDLE-DEE-DUM AND TWEEDLE-DEE- 
DEE." 



HERE was an old woman in Danbury town 
Who wore a linsey-wolsey govvn, 
Bat what befel her, soon yon "11 see, 
For that belongs to " tweedle-dee-dee." 

Her husband, boring for a well. 
Thought he 'd bored right — oh, don't tell ; 
There came up such a smell and scum, 
But that belongs to •' tweedla-dee-dam." 

The hole it poured for days and months, 
And they were forced to run the pumps, 
While this old couple began to see. 
They were on the road to "tweedle-dee-dee." 

They barreled all the greasy ile 

That under their old farm did bile ; 

It was a nasty sight to some. 

But they felt kinder " tweedle-dee-dum. " 

The old man found that he was rich, 

And kakalated what 't would fetch ; 

It turned out sich an iley sea. 

Soon to sail them off to'ard "tweedle-dee-dee.' 



** Tweedle-dee-dee and Tweedle-dee-dum.'' 57 

The faster that the ile did pour. 

The big<;er grew their golden store ; 

Until the neighbors, looking griim, 

Said, these old fools are " tweedle-dee-dum." 

They now decided to drop their linsey, 
As times with them were not so flimsey ; 
While friendships grew apace, to be, 
To this queer couple, ''tweedle-dee-dee." 

Although their hands were old and rusty, 
And their idees a leetle musty, 
They felt too grand to stay to hum, 
Contented still with " tweedle-dee-dum." 

So they bought paste diamonds for their finger, 
And dainty styles did round them linger ; 
While I, like Zaccheus, elimbed a tree, 
To listen how people would "tweedle-dee-dee." 

The old man in a white waist- coat. 
With a lavender necktie round his throat. 
Looked black as bacon cured with rum, 
Loving drinks tha^ belong to " tweedle-dee-dum." 

But the old lady, aired her styles quite frisky, 
And drank wine now. instead of whisky ; 
While young and old, of high degree. 
Drank a health to them and 'Hweedle-dee-dee." 



58 ." Tweedle-dee-dee and Ticeedle-dec-diom." 

His greenbacks gave him " title clear." 
And Colonel now lie did appear ; 
While pride and arrogance gave their thumb, 
Forgetting they ever were '* tweedle-dee-dum," 

Thus fashion does ignore the rough, 

One only now need have the stuff. 

That makes life here a silver sea, 

While your boat rocks lightly o"er ''tweedle-dee-dee." 

Gold paves the way to marble halls. 
Doth wit and wisdom both cntln-all ; 
And none will ask if you did come, 
By tweedle-dee-dee or '■ tweedle-dee-dum." 

Thus, with spanking span of prancing greys, 
When you whirl by, the world will praise ; 
And churches will tune their pipes to key. 
To fleece you, too, with " tweedle-dee-dee." 

31 OB ALE. 

A monied power is shocking, sure. 

For a free country to endure ; 

Yet many rise by it from scum, 

And vote for all their '• tweedle-dee-dum/' 

Give us but brains to rule the hour, 

Unbought by gold to wield the power. 

And uncorrupted we shall be, 

Twixt tweedle-dee-dum and *' tweedle dee-dee." 



•• Twecdle-dee-dee and Ticeedle-da-dum.'^ 

Then \vc shall grow and spread our sails, 

To succor, all toss d here by gales 

From foreign shores ; driven here, you see, 

Twixt '• tweedle-dee-dum " and "tweedle-dec-dee.' 

Then free and fair our prayers can rise. 
To the good Father in the skies ; 
And He no longer will be dumb, 
But hear once more our " 2'e Beum.'^ 

Dare you admit, from stile to bog, 

I 've traced the lines, niarked the snob, 

And shown the difference, or given the key, 

Twixt '' tweedle-dee-dum " and " tweedle-dee-dee?" 



THE NATIONAL DISH. 
{Pork and Beans.) 



LEAR the way for Yankee nation, 
While we pay them herer»bIation, 
For we do desire and wish, 

To sing a song of their national dish. 
Young or old, it matters never, 

Sages wise, with dandies clever, 
Ladies line, and babies weaned. 

Love the Yankee's pork and beans. 

Noting always dime and fraction. 

Mustering into rank for action. 
If they buy a big codfish. 

To save enough for national dish. 
By the wayside ever camping, 

Over plains and mountains tramping 
When night comes, the Yankee seen, 

Jolly o er his pork and beans. 

I have heard the story strange, 
When Alexis here did range, 

In New York, expressed the wish. 
To dluB upon our national dish.. 



The National Disk. ♦>! 

But, old Gotham thought the sonuy 

Of a monarch acted funny ; 
Guess amalgamation is so thick, 

Tliey did not know wliich one to piok. 
But Chicago lias no noodles ; 

In a bargain, sharp as Toodles ; 
AYhen the Duke came to her city, 

Found her Boniface cute and witty. 
Having Yankee pride in dish. 

Gave Alexis what he wished ; 
Graced his board and had no squeams, 

With the nations' pork and beans. 

Here 's three cheers for Chicago, 

Never under an embargo ; 
Never snobby, crying tish, 

Not ashamed of Yankee dish. 
In her scliemes, smart and plucky, 

In her friendships, true and lucky ; 
Long may she reign, like royal queens, 

To feed humanity with pork and beans. 

Beans should, in this country ever. 

Royal be to the Yankee clever ; 
For they made him strong to pull, 

And hold his own 'gainst Johnny Bull. 
The fi e and drum have piped the stoi y. 

That covered Yankeedom with glory ; 
Sung ho>v Freedom, in her teens. 

Was saved by granther's pluck and beans. 



PRIDE— POVERT Y— PEOPLE . 



^^il^ PRIDE — poverty — homeless — hungry — 
If Chill'd by despah- ; 

Nothing to eat, nothing to do, nothing to wear ; 
Friendless — hopeless — waiting — 

Ever depressed. 
Nobody knows the cry that is strangled, 

Daily suppressed. 
What if the mournful eye looks the crowd over, 

Hungry for broad ? 
Passed on the wayside in storm or in sunshine, 

Nothing is said. 
Silks, satins and velvets, sweeinng by. 

Mock at your woe . 
Nobody cares, hurrying by. 

Whither you go. 
Wliat, tho' you 've manfully struggled ! 

Are totally wrecked ? 
Better have saved your money 

And lost your neck. 
Gold, at the end, would have bought 

A monument liigh, 
Wliere piety, fashion, folly and vice, 

Would hnve stop'd to sigh. 



Pr ide — Po verty — People . 03 

Gold-banded your deeds would have been, 

High on the scroll ; 
How foolish to save your misirable self 

And lose your gold ; 
Now you have neither a home, 

Money, or friend ; 
Nobody cares to know you — why ? 

You 've nothing- to lend. 
Ha ! what is worse, you want to borrow. 

Have become a bore. 
They who knew you in days gone by. 

Wish to know you no more. 
Introductions were lively when 

You gave credit ; 
Now all of them stare, struck with a panic 

If you ask debit. 
Thus moves life's friendships ever along. 

In gay career, 
Always readyto divide your profits. 

And share your cheer ; 
Chancing to lose the diamond 

From off your finger. 
The "dear five hundred" friends 

Forget to linger. 
Poor, miserable, cuss'd. 

You know that labor. 
In these degenerate days, goes 

Most by favor . 



64 Pride — Po verfg — Peop le . 

Competing now, with the "world at large, 

You see and feel, 
To be successful you, too, 

Must learn to steal. 
What if your mother spoil' d 

Y our stock in trade, 
When this injunction on 

Your soul she laid ? — 
That "honesty was the Lest policy !" 

Modern lamps 
Have thrown new lights on this old fable ; 

'Tis now the stamps. 
To get them honest, came and went 

With Salem wUches ; 
To hold them now. in spite of fate, 

You must watch your breeches. 
Your legs will Aveaken, with no dimes 

To buy your mush ; 
While arr( gance and purple pride, 

Will your spirits crush. 
Hem'd rourd by evils, born of loss, 

For such is fate ; 
You now, with cap in hand. 

Can humbly wait ; 
For they who rank by gold 

Above your level, 
Will forget to give their finger-tips 

To the shiftless devil. 



ON THE DEATH OF A RISTEH. 



LD memories ! — how they cluster ! — cliii< 

Around our throbbing brain, 
Filling our hearts with love and light 

Of bygone joys and pain. 
The homestead ! — passed to other hands, 

The stranger s foot dotli press 
The old familiar walks and rooms, 

Where mother came to bless 
And greet us kindly when returned 

From wandering afar ; 
She was the lodestone drawing each — 

Our morn and evening star. 

Of all her children, none remain — 

Scattered we all abide ; 
Some of us dwellers on this sphere, 

The rest sleep far and wide. 
The pet of all her household band, 

So full of wild unrest, 
is sleeping now where flowers bloom 

Above heu pulseless breast. 
The dear old father, bowed by years 

And sorrows of the hour. 
Will miss her most, lor of us all. 

She was his ''passion flower. 



fiO On the Death of a Sister^ 

Dear little sister ! how she clung 

To Life ! how sweet it seemed ; 
Sweeter and dearer — day by day — 

As fainter hope-life gleamed. 
Your sweet, pale face ! I see it still 

By the window — the cottage brown — 
Where you wafted me a good-bye kiss 

From brother's home in town. 

The greatest wish of your sad heart 

I think will be fulfilled ; 
You now, perchance, may know it. dear, 

Though you lie cold and still. 
A fearful dread, that all your friends 

'' Would soon forget you" quite ; 
You spoke of one that "seemed forgot," 

And thought it "was not right." 
How much you felt the kindness all 

That soothed life's last sad hours, 
Plow sunny was your sick-room made 

With gifts of fruit and flowers. 

For all these friends that clustered round, 

Begging for just one peep 
Within your room, you always had 

A smile, both sad and sweet. 
It was all the gift you had to give, 

They seemed to feel the smile, 



On the Death of a ^Sister. 07 

Upon your sad and weary face, 

Grew dearer all the while, 
liow we shall miss you, as the days 

Of each succeeding year 
Recall some pleasure, joy or pain, 

VV e shared together here . 
We did not know our hearts, or feel 

They were so intertwined ; 
Our clouds in life were often dark, 

Yours always "silver-lined."' 

With kindly words, friends came to soothe 

The grief your death has brought. 
Remembering all the winning ways 

Your lips and actions taught. 
It is sweet to know remembrance kind 

Follows your bygone days, 
And nought is cherished, Angle, dear. 

Of any naughty ways. 
In the farm-house, home but lately ouis, 

Where " er we turn w^e see 
Some dainty thing, wrought by your hands, 

That remind us still of thee. 
Can we forget ? nay, sister dear ! 

Life may have wealth of days, 
But memory ever will be true. 
To all your winsome ways. 



ALONE, 



^i LONE ! amid the ebbing of life's tide, 
'^iV The swiftly moving years 
That bear us toward a fairer clime, 

Undim'd by earthly tears. 
Alone ! we have but memories of to-day, 

The joj^s anc] sorrows of a checker'd life, 
How near they seem at this fair Christmas time, 

Unvexed by turmoil of past earthly strife . 
How many hearts, like oceans' 

Melancholy tone. 
When storm-toss' d by the wave of trouble. 

Sigh and moan : 
Oh, God ! how hard is life. 

Unloved — alone ! 

Alone ! we move along nor heed the throng. 

The light or joyous glee, 
The changing shadows, clouds or sun 

That glimmer on life's sea. 
The blight of earth has darkened all the years, 

Unchecked our tears do fall. 



(iVI Alone ! 

VVliere the tall grass doth grow, the liower! 

We see the grave, and pall ; 
Bowed here by sorrows, low bending. 

At the throne. 
With earthly prayer ascending 

In mournful tone, 
"Oh, God ! Thy will, not ours !" 

To take or leave us still. 

Unloved, alone. 



WHY, WHAT AKD WPIISKY. 



O RIGHT a wrong becoir.es a sage 
In past, or even present age ; 
I may not claim the first by years, 
Or win at best by smiles or tears ; 
But still I may a moral point. 
And show som^ things qnite out of joint ; 
For the past and present in review 
Claim many things both old and new, 
And I am sure, on calm reflection. 
In one thing we've not made progression. 

Although in science we rank fair. 
Braving all danger to do and dare ; 
Searching the seas for hidden store 
To graft upon our present lore ; 
Around the world to clasp our hands 
And bind its weal with iron bands ; 
To scale the highest mountain peak 
Is now a fashion quite elite ; 
To train fleet coursers for the main 
That wear out muscle and the brain. 



Wh(/, W/uit and Whisky. 71 

lliiiidreds of feet, nay, less or more. 

We delve and dig-, for hidden ore 

O'er pathless plains with steam and hre, 

On iron wiieels that have no tire ; 

Housed from the siorm like meteor Hashing 

Our tie»y steeds are ever dashiug ; 

From Iceland seas to southern bowers 

You 11 find tliese country men of ours ; 

Great northern air-divers class d with loons 

bailing clouds and billows by steam and balloans 

But it matters not how or when or where 

We walk or ride or delve or dare 

You must admit the times are frisky 

And modern taste caters to whisky 

In miner's camp it braces muscle 

Beating the toiler in the tussel ; 

it wins new laurels on the staare 

Too flippant makes the tongue of sage ; 

All the church anthems do not rise 

For we scent them dirfting down th^ aisle. 

By blood red bloom some note and think 
The clergy have to much of drink. 
Since it s become a daily passion 
For young and old to follow fashion. 
None dare refuse the friend who treats, 
It s not polite in hall or street. 



WIty, What and Whisky. 

'I'lius the Avay-side lilled with idlers all^ 
Who every gro^-shop give a call; 
111 fact you cannot ride or dine 
liut you smell vintage of the wine, 
And, just as sure as you are born, 
(Jonsumes our cerals and the corn. 
And thousands now, that daily beg, 
Their substance drifts to vat and keg. 
Thus runs the world at large to-day. 
While the serpent creeps his stealthy way 
From hovels low to ladies' bower, 
Seeking new victims for his power. 
This moral degradation sure 
Has seemed to reach beyond a cure. 
A hopeful ^riend cries " reef your sail !" 
But still we drift, before the gale, 
On toward a sliore where rifted rock 
Will every nerve and muscle shock. 

Where human will and past endeavor. 
Must ruined lie — aye, wrecked forever. 
For mankind here, whisky atloat 
Is seldom held by anchor-rope. 
And no greater curse in any age. 
Has history written on its page. 
Than licensed law to liquor sell, 
Which drags its victims down to hell ; 
And there the devil waits his crew, 
According to theology true. 



Why, What and WhUky. 

By luarbie lialls, wneic jiuslice wait;-, 
Sometimes I stop, to estimate 
The balance weight llia,t weij^hh the sin 
Twixt light champagne and lieiy gin. 
It slowly moves — I note and scratch 
The dillerencc — tiowseis badly patclied, 
Next Ml'. (Jasliier, cassimer'd line, 
Where oft tlie Judge and the jury dine. 
Something- has slipped, the drop is beatcj 
He '11 rise by golden scales to deacon. 

Where lofty walls and softeu'd light, 
Do guard the darkness from the light ; 
The steeples liigh, the sacred lanes, 
iloly of Holies ! where the tiame. 
Not of hell-tires, but of incense burning, 
Will he — ah ! there from sin be turning. 
Will crucify his wicked brother, 
Who could not law or justice smother, 
Because he did not steal, "tis true. 
Enough to buy the bench and pew. 

Grave, stubborn facts are hard to beat, 
They dog our footsteps in the street, 
Where all the Pharisee s cry shame. 
But give no water in his name. 
Who came by Christian creed and cross, 
To save these sinful souls earth lost. 



74 Why, WJiat and WhuJcy. 

If sin does smoulder in the urn, 
Where costly incense daily burn, 
And piety, befogg'd with crime, 
Does with the saints and judges dine, 

V/ hy hiiild yonr jails to Pimply catch 

The man whose seat is always patched ? 

Just dress him up in clothes more fine, 

And publish that he has resigned. 

The righteous law, the Clinstian creed, 

To do by others as our needs 

Dem.ind that they should do by us, 

Who share with them the bane and curse. 

The gold-bought law on which you revel. 

Has vanqrished right to shame the devil. 

Where halls of justice are a sham, 

Not worth the price of " Tinker's dam." 

The Church needs scourge of Christ again, 

To purify their lofty fanes. 

For all bedecked with jewels rare, 

Can find a seat to offer prayer. 

But honest homespun finds no stall, 

To serve his God neath frescoed wall. 

Thus many drift to licensed hall, 
While you bemoan their crime and fall, 
Like the old w^oman's standing joke, 
"V\ hen on the hill the geaiing broke, 



Wliy, Wh.at and Whiskey. 75 

Said — "she trusted God, but more the leather, 

As long as that did hold together. " 

Thus your creeds and laws do at seeiii to hold. 

And if I dare to make so bold, 

To say the times are surely twitching, 

This female out to mend your b»-eeching, 

With grit and plucic — aye, faith in prayer, 

As through your dens she guides the mare. 



SILVER HAIR. 



^|EAUTTFUL hair, frosty and white, 
'J Silvered by time. 

Shedding a halo of love o'er a face 

Almost divine. 
Lines of deep care show that the years 

Which glidded so fast 
Have left their impress of sorrow and pain 

E'er lon^ to pass. 
Linked to our life by memories fair, 

Lovin<y thee now 
For thy silvery hair. 

Nothing in life so pleasant to me 

As an aged face, 
Waiting God's summons to the goodly land 

With tottering pace; 
Motherly, lovingly, biding the time 

With perfect trust. 
Knowing that this is the fate of all — 

''Dust to dust." 
Tenderly, kindly, may we all care, 

Loving thee now 
For thy silvery hair. 



Silver Hair. 77 

Most of tiiy loved ones lowly do sleep 

Under the sod, 
Trusting and prayerl'ul you do believe 

They are with God. 
Joys and grief were mingled together 

In thy daily cup ; 
Sometimes your feet grew laggard and weary, 

The wayside so rough, 
J kit still thou wasi brave to do and to dare, 

And we love thee for it. 
Since thy silvery hair. 

Time has softened the grief of the years 

Back in the past ; 
All the dark clouds are passing away 

That shadows did cast ; 
Soon the bright morn of the better land 

Will dawn on thy sight. 
Where a loving band wait for you now, 

Cradled in light. 
There, we believe, by promises fair, 

Your children will know you 
By your silvery hair. 

Memories golden, linked with a chain 

Silvered by time, 
Grleam like stavs in the blue ether. 

O'er years that were kind. 



78 Silver Hair. 

The soft, gentle hand that smoothed the way 
Of days that were dark, 

Until once again, in the garden of life, 
We sang with the lark, 

These are my jewels, guarded with care, 
Bound to my soul 
With thy silvery hair. 



THE OLD BROWN HOUSE. 

June 10th, 1844. 



tHE old brown house just under the hill, 
Quaint and queer ! 
How oft L have shared a welcome full* 

To its warmth and cheer. 
No fairer spot to my childish eye, 

The roadside by, 
Could be found in all that valley near, 
To greet the eye. 

Roses did climb to the very eaves, 

The brown house o 'er. 
While the chick-a-dee sang among the trees 

Just by the door, 
The oriole built on the swinging bough 

Her nest like a bag. 
And the gophers played (I used to think) 

A game called tag. 

The cherry-trees, so full and ripe, 
Where the robins came ; 

I remember how, one day in J une. 
An aged dame 



80 The Old Brown House. 

Mounted the steps, in shaker bonnet, 

'I'o pluck the fruit, 
And how the robins did fly round — 

The way dispute. 

They thought she picked too many cherries, 

And hence they met, 
As full of scold as a lot of women — 

About as set. 
They did contend right then and there, 

This female brood. 
For equal rights, tlie biggest share 

Of cherry food. 

The maiden lady had to leave 

The cherry tree ; 
Thus might made right, for they could pick 

Her eyes, you see. 
The years have sped away since then 

Mid joy and pain, 
But reminiscences of the past — 

They still remain. 

I would not — could not — e 'er forget 

The house and farm ; 
The great warm hearts so true to us, 

Life's earliest charm. 



The Old Brown House. 81 

Our wandering feet in the coming years 

Have a wider range ; 
J^ut neither loves or faces new 

Can the old estrange. 

And thus I come here to embalm, 

On this fair page, 
My love for thee and the old farm ; 

To hope that age, 
Though silvered by the years, will bring 

Nought to alloy ; 
To wish the rosy June of life may end 

In golden joy. 



WHAT YOU KNOW ACCORDING TO SOCIETY, 
YOU MUST MUZZLED KNOW. 



And everything agog, 
The fixtures topsy-turvy, 

With ideas on the jog. 
People very funny, 

Nary two alike. 
Some do pass you rudely. 

Others more polite. 
But Goosey-goosey-gander, 

You with the world must sing. 
Oh, is' n't it lovely, 

Dinger-dong-a-ding, 
Mr. and Mrs. Grundy 

Wield a powerful sway. 
Everybody listens. 

Repeating what they say. 
To pass your own opinion. 

Independent of the rest, 
If the general cry is " splendid," 

Will stir a hornet's ne»t. 



WIi<(t yoti Know you iimd Mvz:ded Know. S'-i 

How we like the imniiino-, 
Pictures that are fast, 
Ridicule is verj' line. 

When it "s drawn hy Nast. 
Pictures of an old man. 

Pitiable in hit, 
Whose truth and wisdom, 

Will outlive 
The pencil-paintine: wit. 
A life-work for humanity. 
Glorious in deed, 

When his powers wcie wanipg, 
We gave him ridicule for meed. 
But let a since perforn ei', 

Well— Othello -try 
" Listen to the mocking-bird '' — 

Just look at his eye. 
Should you give impression, 

What a load to pull, 
You feel like Balaam's animal, 

Quzzing "Sacred Bull." 
. But, like Gallileo, 

You whisper, it is true, 
His better part is comedy, 
And aping of the Jew. 
A modern built Italian, 

We greet but not adore, 
Who strains to make a Brutus, 
And does undersizc a Moor. 



WhtU you Know yoa musl Muzzled Know, 

Riding in a street car, 

With serious and funny, 
Watcliing how the many bow 

To beauty, fashion, money. 
Girlish married ladies, 

Lovely painted charmers. 
Fearing they might soil their styles, 

Sitting by the farmers. 
Aboriginal in taste. 

The cheaper then the more, 
Many look as tlio' their husbands 

Kept a dollar store. 
A female in an old dyed suit, 

lias lots of time to look, 
Never bothered with attentions, 

And thus you read the book. 
Poetical and prosy, 

Bible, beef and beer, 
Hunting " root of evil, " 

To buy your dress and cheer. 
But, with ladies dressed in velvet, 

We never criticism try ; 
Tiio" we often hear them asking, 

' ' How is that for high ?' ' 
Stopping at a hotel, 

Marble, gilt and satin, 
Round the room in wonder. 

Baby feet are patting. 



What you Know you must Muzzled Know. 

Bewildered by the elegance, 

Loud in style and price, 
Woke fiom trance by babies — 

'* Mamma ! aint this kitchen nice !" 
Darkies look astonished, 

Nothing very rare, 
We serene and blandly, 

With a tone-y air. 
J^t a standing party. 

Little Rissy Cash, ^ 
Powing to a gent, enquired — 

"■ Where he ate his hash ?" 
Oh ! "is n't she a dam-sel," 

Said vis-a-vis to Will, 
Laughing in the corner 

At his unpaid tailor bill. 
But, whist ! the game is humbug, 

Petting on the sly,- 
How the wool is- changing hands, 

To cover neighbors' eye. 
How all mince together. 

To my domestic look, 
And T wonder in what college 

Their pere de famille was booked. 
Male and female pipers. 

To gossip, mutual right, 
According to society, 
I graceful bow good-night, 



THE DREAMS THAT FADE. 



■^ + ^yNE by one,'" life's sorrows meet us, 
^^ "One by one"' our hopes depart. 
Shadows haunt our daily footsteps, 

Bringing- sadness to our hearts. 
"One by one" the dark clouds hover. 

But we heed not gathering storm ; 
By love shielded from the tempest, 

In our homes so bright and warm . 
Full of life and healthful feeling, 

Caring not for darkest night, 
For our earthly eye can see not 

Much that "s hid from human sight. 

"One by one, ' our earthly treasures 

Come to gladden sunny years ; 
"One by one"' we miss their footsteps. 

Leaving us to gloom and tears. 
Flow^ers we cull'd in the sweet spring-time. 

Dearer far, because thy love 
Shared with us their bloom and fragrance. 

With the cooing of the dove. 



The Dreams that Fade. 87 

Wildly tliiob'd my lieart at evening, 

As I turned the paper o'er ; 
Can it be, so soon you 've left us, 

Lottie, for that shadowy shore ! 



A MODERN PHAKL8EE. 



ji T may appear quite strange to some, 
p This heading here to see, 
Yet I piesiiaie they 11 recognize. 

My modem Pharisee. 
And yet I tind it hard to choose 

The lirst to grace my list, 
Unless I shuffle up the caids 

Like gamesters playing whist. 
Everybody may not know the ace 

Is highest in the pack, 
But we "11 suppose it Mr. A, 

And start with coat of black. 
Mr. A is counted preacher tine, 

Has more of creed than brains, 
Is dignified, like all the rest 

Who Gospel are ordained. 
I know the wolf, his sheep disguise, 

Nor piety won't pass ; 
His pulpit eloquence, my friends, 

Is nought but sounding brass. 
I wondered if the manna given, 

Rained freel, like bread of old, 



The Modern PJiarisee. 89 

W'iis told this j^ood Samaritan 

xlsked pay an hundred fold. 
1 knew of one, war-widow's bread, 

Grew not on Bible tree, 
Ihit, tempted by "forbidden fruit," 

She knew my Pharisee. 
Blessings shall crown the brow of him 

Who has the orphan fed. 
But cursed of God will be the man 

Buys virtue starved for bread. 
A younjT fop next comes in, to grace 

This sullied page so white ; 
He looks so proud, you 'd think he was 

A monarch here by right. 
T know of one frail girl, so fair, 

More sinned against than sinning, 
Has not forgot his loving smile, 

It was so very winning. 
Fair ladies greet him kindly for 
'T is pleasant thus to see 
A silly set of females flirt, 

A noted Pharisee. 
Here comes a haughty woman, proud. 

Whose fingers white do hold 
The price of many a hard days' work. 
Some seamstress' well-earned gold. 



yo The Modern 'Pharisee, 

Her wants are many, and she drives 

Hard poverty apace, 
While thus she manages to keep 

Her jewels and her lace. 
Poor tireless worker — garret-housed — 

Work on, nor wish nor wonder, 
You "re like the tly where spiders spin, 

The net is hard to sunder. 
Of good deeds done, not record one. 

Her old ancestral tree 
Won't count for much, when God shall judge 

This high-toned Pharisee. 
The miser, toiling for his gold. 

He counts his treasures o er, 
And heedeth not the hungry ones 

Jast starving by his door. 
Yet all the misers do not wear 

A seedy suit of clothes, 
For there ' s my lord and lady tine. 

You sure would not suppose 
They ever counted what they hoard, 

Or felt a gnawing pain. 
If not for bread, the gnawing comes, 

They hanker for the vain 
And trifling vanities of life. 

While the contents of the till 
Are kept for other things besides 

The washer-woman's bill. 



The Modern Pharisee. 91 

What care these misers, want and woe 

Round hovels riot free, 
Their only aim is greedy gain, 

I count them Pharisee. 
Miss Sweet t^ixteen comes next so nice, 

Eeads Latin, French and Dutch, 
Piano playing is her forte. 

But mixing bread and such, 
Ts only forold -fashioned souls, 

Thnt Imow the wants of life, 
]\Ty little lady hopes to be 

Fome rich man's baby-wife, 
Plie thinls there is no need of work. 

Yet can't live like a mouse. 
Knows the "Alnighiy Pollar" moves the world, 

And Bridget runs the house. 
The old ISTew England style has passed, 
Her daddy can't keep pace. 
And Young America's quite ashamed, 

Of mother's sun-burned face. 
Some bony hand has toiled to gain 

The diamond and the feather, 
She gaily sports at midnight hour. 

Or morning sunny weather. 
Ah ! blooded heirs, like pigs, you feed. 

From grandpa's crib and tree, 
Your lives will rust, thus fed on husk, 

My shiftless Pharisee. 



iJ2 'Vhe Modern Pharisee. 

riie vvDiid (iioves on, tiie people blind 

To liainau weal or v^oe, 
xA-ud even at blie end of life, 
How little mortals know. 
Humanity, now great thy needs, 

Half understood, alas ! 
Since few in knowledge can compare 

With even Balaam's Ass. 
I dare not write the truth, or all 

1 note from hour to hour. 
Occurring daily in the street, in hall, or lady' 
bower. 

You 'd think the story overdrawn. 
The facts not worth a Ilea, 
Although I trace, by ancient line. 

To modern Pharisee. 



LINES SUGGESTED ON HEARING OF LIN- 
COLN'S ASSASINATION. 

jn ID you not hear the low, sacl sighing- 

-^1 Of the breeze but yester morn ? 

Did you not see the arch of blue grow black as night 

Fore-]-unner of a storm ? 
The clouds passed slowly o'er us gentle showers 

Came softly wooing spring'sfirst buds and flow- 
ers ; 
Tidings of victory were wafted hei^e from far and near, 

All shout for joy ; 
Old Yankee-doodle prancing felt 

E'en once more like a boy. 
The merry bells are ringing, banners all afloat, 

How happy freedom's land, how joyous are her 
notes ! 

No dark forebodings whispered on the air 

Of treacherous deeds, 
No warning of a secret foe of blood 

Or mourning weeds. 
None dreamed of gathering tempest — 

Sudden shock, 
Thrilling through all the land e'er night, 

Like lightning through a rock. 



U4 Lines sayyefiltid on heariioij 

iiut hark 1 vvliiiL iiieaiis those iiiutteniigs — 

Deep as sinoaideriiiy lires '? 
Faces so white with anguish, 

Tis liie news that's llasiied along the wires 1 

"The President is dying,"' a bullet through his brain, 

"The Secretary stabbed, ' but just alive, 
t5carce conscious of his pain. 

''1 don t believe It" cries a voice from out tne 
crowd ; 
" Tis all a lie "" — 

When suddenly along the lines came back 
"Continued, " in quick reply. 

The blow was like a thunder- bol% 
So sharp the pain 

Great stalwart men shed tears like April rain. 

Teeth were shut hard, lips hrm, compressed, 

It is an hour for grief. 
But Oh ! I fear the silence will be ominous and brief. 

The copper-colored ones keep dark. 
They dare not face the light, 

For pistol shots and balls pass free 
When men are passion white. 

The time has passed for treason's smile ; 
Too keen the nations pain ; 

For Lincoln's blood cries from the ground, 
Beware, oh wretched Cain. 



of LincoWs Aisasinatton. 95 

The bloody stains on hands and brow, 

Will brand you craven, quite ; 
Your name dishonored, will pass down 

Nay, damned to darkest night ; 
The nation mourns, stabbed by your hand, 

Her banners drapped in black, 
It seems as if, to ruder times. 

This war would move us back. 



WOMAN'S SPHERE. 



N making woman from a rib 
We think God failed, Adam knew he did 
For when he pluck'd the apple-tree 
And whining said, ' ' she gave it me, ' ' 
That very trick did bind his dear 
To occupy a certain sphere ; 
And thus you see that old tradition, 
Has doomed all lemales to perdition. 
If one, more daring than the rest, 
Should think her life had not been blest, 
And talk of rights, or dare make speeches, 
Men howl at once, •' She wants our breeches. 
Poor simple souls, deserving pity, 
(Oh no, because we do n't look j^retty,) 
That sterner fact would make us scout 
The right to wear your breeches out. 
We like the trains, the plumes, the styles, 
That win us favor in mans eyes, 
Have little cause to make complaint 
Of those won daily by pearl and paint. 
If we bide time and hoai-d the pelf. 
We yet may own our souls and self. 



[Vo»ian''s Sphere. 'J"? 

Then if you're taxed, don't growl or whine, 
But meekly pass your check or dime ; 
Should the master come drunk as a loon, 
Just set him near a clean spittoon ; 
That is a sphere he never questions — 
Who ever heard of one objection ? 
In Paradise, Eve must have learned 
When they were from tlie garden turned, 
HLer cringing spouse had master" d fate, 
And she was his to love or hate. 
No wonder that she was provoked 
With the stolen apple in his throat ; 
Knowing that she to the end of life 
Must hide his sins like a dutiful wife; 
And thus began her natural spliere 
Which ends in matrimony here, 
Thus, ever since the lines were chalked, 
Behind their Adams the Eves have walked. 



ON THE DEATH OF AN OLD LADY. 



Ijj^j^I TH noiseless steps the years glide on, 

We lieed not how they pass ; 
Nor think our day of life so brief, 

The span like summer grass. 
From childhood's hour to manhood's prime 

They almost intertwine, 
And soon we wake to find our youth 

Has reached old age's decline. 

These thoughts came to me in the dim, 

And dreary sun-set light, 
Thus musing of the by-gone years. 

To show your grief, I write ; 
Long sunny days have come and gone 

Since I within your hall 
Stood gaily wishing all good-bye, 

My first brief way-side call. 

'Tis wise, sometimes, to measure not, 
Our friendship by the years. 

For many idly share our joys 

Who shun our griefs and tears ; 



On the Death of an Old Lady, ;)i> 

We little thought that Sabbath morn, 

E'er summer" s sun should set, 
Your smiling faces would grow sad, 

Your cheeks with tears be wet ; 
One vacant chair beside your hearth. 

An aching in your heart — 
A mother's love^naught can suuply — 

'•Lite has no counterpart." 

Looking far back to days by-gone 

Forward to present times, 
1 trace tne wandering of hei' feet, 

From Last to Western climes ; 
iSew Lngland woo'd the western world. 

She found her prairies fair ; 
Her children came fioiii far and witle, 

With will to do and dare. 

A pioneer, when hope was young 

In the wild and distant west, 
With the bold spirits of those days 

She bravely shared the risk ; 
Time sped away the whispering winds 

Around her cabin bower, 
Soon changed to busy hum of life 

Man's onward march and power. 



100 071 the Death of an Old Lady, 

Mourn not ! the withered hands are still, 

Close clasped above her breast ; 
Her aged form, wearied by years, 

Has peacefully sunk to rest : 
Bhe's gone : and left a void within 

Your hearts and home of earth, 
But far beyond your vision's ken 

Her spirit has new birth. 

Her three score -years had long been spun 

In woof and web of life, 
Her toils are o'er, each duty done 

As daughter, mother, wife. 
Her golden harvest, ripe old age 

Was beautiful and bright, 
From the glow of its fair summer-time 

To the winter of its night , 

Her life to all was rich in love 

And blessings every hour, 
If rightly cherished still in life 

She has not lost the power 
To cheer you by remembrance sweet 

Of joys but lately riven, 
Low bending with the angels now 

She Tfatches — waits — in heaven. 



HAUNTS AND HABITANTS OF THE FOREST 



'^HE hunter travels the forest path 






To chase the buck and the doe, 
The eagle soars the clouds above 

To bathe in the morning glow. 
The black-bird sings in the hazel brush 

While stealing corn in the fallow, 
Ha ! little cares he for the scare-crow high, 

The trick is so very shallow. 

The partridge hides on a leafless tree — 

If the hunter whistle under, 
He will find that the bird has never stirred, 

(Which is a natural wonder ;) 
The quail is, ah, a deceitful bird, 

"More wet'' forever is singing. 
But now when the fowler comes with the game 

It's "owls" not quails they are bringing. 

The duck she Hoats the placid lake, 

Or hides in the marshes dirty. 
From "canvass-back" to "blue- wing teal' 

Their ways are ever Hirty, 



102 HaunU and HahitanU of tJie Forest. 

The squirrel leaps from tree to tree, 
The fleetest wild-wood runner ; 

To bag this lively chap "you know" 

Take's the eye of a practiced gunner. 

The whip-poor-will sings at the twilight houi 

Her song has a cadence mellow, 
I think sometimes her wild-wood spouse 

T s a lazy kind of a fellow ; 
Just as the stars begin to peep 

I listen to hear her folly. 
Gossiping how he whip'd-poor-will 

In a tone most melancholy. 

The king-fisher soars, then swoops below, 

"With his keen eye on a shiner, 
Caters for himself in a high-flown way; 

Pray tell, is there anything finer? 
The wood-pecker, hear him ! at the old tree 

Pecking the holes, never slowly. 
Soon we shall find that sturdy old oak 

Laid on the forest path lowly. 

The oriole sits on her swinging nest 

Through the longest days of summer, 

And watches the robin digging for worms 
Low, down among the clover. 



Haunts and Habitants of the Forest. )0o 

The snow-bird, blitlisoiue, happy and gay, 
No matter the season, how dreary ; 

In sun-shine or snow, ever lively "you know. 
Pray, why ? who can answer the queary ? 

Men, and birds, and squirrels are alike 

In their ways, their wants and their notions, 
Shifting and changing, never at rest, 

Faithless in love and devotion. 
Women, like whip-poor-wills, gossip and tell, 

Pluming like ducks all summer, 
Freity and jealous — scolding their spouse 

Who work for their bread like a drummer. 

The prairie-hen seeks the harvest field 

For the food that is dropped for the sparrow, 
Where the hand of God has scattered life's seed 

From hill-side to sod till'd by harrow. 
With the birds, all should sing a roun-de-lay 

While the plow-man is turning the fallow ; 
And the song would lighten the day of toil 

As we watch the food grow for the morrow. 



LINES TO A BEATTTTFUL BOY. 



I 



HAVE been this bright morn down to the beach 

Lifted the anchor that laywithin reach ; 
Dragging the row-boat close to the dock 

Where it set lil^e a duck and gracefnlly rocked. 
T lifted my pet over her side 

And floated him off on the waters to ride ; 
"Out and in, the length of the chain," 

He drifted away afloat on the main, 
Looking so funny, so little, so brave. 

Delighted to think he could ride on the wave. 

I fell to dreaming as T lGol<ed at his face, 

And tried by the present the fntnre to trace ; 
Beantifnl child -hood, fair as a dream. 

Nothing to darl<en the light on the sheen ; 
Wilfnl and wayward, never at rest 

Chasing the butterfly, hunting birds' nests ; 
Noting no changes of time or the hours, 

Culling the honey of life mid the flowers; 
Too soon will the bloom of baby-hood fade 

As the years move on from sunlight to shade, 
Chilling the warmth the summer of joy, 

Life's fairest days, thou frolicsome boy. 



Lines to a Beautiful Boy. 105 

Would I could weave in m eb and woof 

All that is good for thee, holding- aloof 
Sorrow and sin, follies and crime [time ; 

That may havmt thy foot-steps down the valley of 
Chaste as the evening prayer at grandmother's knee 

May all thy earthly ways ever here be ; 
Daring the right your feet will not slip. 

And may life be as sweet as this kiss on your lip. 



TIME LEADS THE YEARS. 



IME moves for us with rapid pace, 
^ The past seems like a dream ; 
I look in vain for olden ties, 

For change lies cold betvi^een. 
How strange the love our child-hood knew. 

Should thus grow grey with years. 
And we become estranged who once 
Alike shared hopes and fears. 

But such is life, short, sunny days. 

Home love and child-hood graces ; 
Fore-warned by time comes manhood prime 

And then we all change places. 
Yet the old home beacon brightly burns, 

Love- lit with care and pain. 
The eyes long used to watching, dim'd 

With tears that drop like rain. 

If toss' d apart by billowy strife 

We sail not with a brother, 
God grant the anchor still may hold 

In shore for sake of niotlioi-. 



Timff Leadu the Years. 107 

Let kind remembrance from us all 

Cheer oft our parents old; 
A loving word but little costs, 

To them 'tis more than gold. 

Then time for us will lead the years 

On toward a fairer shore, 
Where ''drifting sands" and treacherous shoals 

Will vex our souls no more ; 
Where tears will dim no eye of love, 

Where angels never weep ; 
On mother breast -once more to rest 

In last, but dreamless sleep. 



THE WANING SUMMER. 



The summer sports over 

The fishers all fied, 
The bait-net swings 

In the boughs over-head. 
Your boat rides at anchor 

Close by the shore ; 
And idle again 

Lies the rod and the oar. 
I hear no more 

The tread of your feet, 
Or the scratch of a keel 

On the low, pebly beach. 

As night throws her mantle 

And shadows o'er all 
1 listen in vain 

The haloo and the call ; 
I no more can row 

Ride, fish, or can swim. 
Only dream here alone. 

As the night closes in, 
By the stillness oppress' d, 

Watching afar — 
Low, down the horizon 

Love's evening star. - 



The Waning Summer. 109 

The blossoms are fading, 

And golden-hued tints 
On all of the leaflets 

The autumn does print. 
While the song of the birds 

Has a mellower tone, 
And the brigstest hued ones 

Already have flown ; 
The nuts fully ripe 

Drop silently down 
For the squirrel, who ever 

Is skipping around 
To gather them in 

To his nest snug and warm, 
Where he can defy 

The cold winter' s storm . 

Do you wonder I'm lonely — 

With you far away ? 
The long, stilly nights — 

Still longer the day ? 
No plans for the future, 

No home life in view, 
With so much that is cheerless, 

Who would not be blue ? 



DEACON A^BINADAB'S OPINION. 

''Signifying the Father of Willing neas" 
ON FEMALE SUFFRAGE. 



Say, Deacon, I" ve been thinking this morning 

Of this vYife, knitting here by your side; 
How you both still cherish each other, 

W hatever of ills doth betide. 
And I thought, if you had no objections, 

I would like to hear you relate 
Some of the facts and romances 

Since you married Miss Charity Wait. 

Well, you know neice, there is many Bohemian 
Whose fame has been writ up in puff, 

But anything scratched by a female 

To the masculin's "oh that's nothing " but 
stuff. 

Now you know I never was that way, 
Tho' charity and I have had spells, 

Yet taking the years altogether [well ; 

We've pulled thro' them middlin' kinder 



Beacon Ahinadah' n Opinion. HI 

For Charity has minded her business, 
Content with her family, affairs ; 

It's true we've advised together 

As it 'mazingly lighten' d our cares. 

Young men, neice, liave high-toned notions 

That cost them a good deal to lug, 
But T notice they abandoned them mostly 

When felt takes the place of the plug. 
These new fangled notions of wimmen, 

I never did admire them quite, 
But provided they win, why Charity 

Will go in with the rest for her rights. 

She has helped me earn many a dollar. 

And ever since the day we were wed, 
T noticed in pulling together 

Her whiifle-tree was a lettle ahead; 
And T'm the last man to deny it 

For I never was counted a sneah, 
Tho" the world think's the tongue of a woman 

Was given for gossip, not speech. 

T have just a faint recollection 

Of an old fash in' d stock for my throat, 
Rut it wilted when Charity put, slily, 

Baby diapers in my swallow-tail coat ; 
You see we were visiting at father's 

To celebrate the Fourth of July, 



112 Deacon Abiiiadab's Opinion. 

And had met there, young brother Jonathan 

With his city bride, a regular higli-Hy. 
Now your aunt had the bloom of the roses. 
And in lier wedding-dress of some shally stuff, 
Looked I thought, a good sight handsomer 

Than the bride, be-jeweled and puffed. 
My sweet-heart in the old-fashioned farm-house 

When compared to the fast city belle. 
Was like contrasting that pearl on your finger 

With the dinner-horn — an old couch shell. 

Many think such girls are bewitching, 

But, domestically they hav'nt much sense ; 
While their beauty to me looks fady. 

Like the white-wash on my old medder fence . 
All men who have loved pure women 

Whose cheeks nature's bloom doth adorn, 
Know that life without a wife and the babies 

Is loveless, shiftless and forlorn. 

I have crossed over many a turn-pike 

With men whom the world counted steddy. 
Knew they were kept from the ditch and 
respected, 
Because their wife was strong-minded, 
not gidy. 



Deacon Ablnadab s Opinion. \l'.) 

Jljiit I forgot, 1 \v;us telling a stoiy 

How we celebrated the Fourth of July ; 

And that I was as green as a school-boy 

Raised on nut-cakes and fresh pumpkin-pi' . 

I own'd you see a home in the village 

And felt my importance as a man, 
Would allow no one to quiz me, 

^Vith a wife and baby on my hand. 
Now mother was up to blinks and blushes, 

Knew that Charity was scudding a squall : 
An d I — well, I felt like old Adam, 

Led on by my Eve to a fall, 
When mother fished out of the pockets 

Of my swallow-tails a bundle so neat. 
And I learned the matrimonial secret, — 

They were made out of old, worn sheets. 

This, of course, turned the laugli on my rigging. 

Making me as limp as those rags ; 
But I vowed I was still for tiie union 

Tho' I saw not the stripes in my Hags ; 
You see it was not then the fashion, 

Although it is now general rule, 
To present a young bride with the "trowses,' 

The linen and a n(;w reticule. ■" 



114 Deacon Abinadab's Opinion. 

But the stars to the luiion kept adding 

While the stripes with the sconlding never 
fln«:cged ; 
Still I stnclc to the girl and the habies 

Tho' my shirts dwindled down to a rag. 
We have traveled since Ihen down the valley 

Caring not so much for our pride 
As we do for the love born of kindness 

That still with our age doth abide, 
But the time T was sot up for deacon 

Charity thought that my chances were slim, 
But religion is a good deal like politics, 

Not always by prayers that we win. 

Kow I've thoui;ht the female question all over 

And admit there are pints to both sides, 
But to read much you know voids decision, 

The law or the cradle to devide ; 
By the way, I must tell you a joker 

Which amused me so much 'tother day, 
You know when playing with Teddy, 

Our Enoch has a very teazing way ; 
He bought a pet dog you remember — 

Telb'ng my gran'son who began to look pale, 
He would own the head for his portion 

And Teddy might have the dog's tail ; 



Deacon Abinadab's Opinion. W) 

* But finally he decided that Teddy 

Must pay as he could not afford 
To divide his dog with a fellow 

AVho never paid a cent for his board ; 
*'Well,'' said Teddy, "that seenis very funny, 

And his answer showd the joker was beat. 
"Can you teach, as well as divide, sir. 

The tail of a dog how to eat ?'' 

Thus, many are hunting division 

While the growlers think the devil is to pay. 
But when there's a good deal of crowing, 

You can't kalkeilate on a lay ; 
Time will right all the mischief a brewing 

And the bad eggs will rot, never hatch, 
If it's right, the women will be voters ; 

What's more, they have learn'd how to 
scratch. 
I don't admire to be hen-pecked, 

But they've picked for their chickens with 
curs, 
And are toughen' d to strike for their freedom 

With a bill that will carry the spurs. 

Yet I hope that the much mooted question, 
Where many do hotly take sides, 

Will be rocked into union by the cradle. 
For it's death Teddy's dog to divide. 



1(1 Deacon Abinadal) s Opinion, 

Right is riglit, and none can deny it 

Hold's as good for the women as the men, 

When we steal all the eggs from the hen-coop, 
We cant stop the cluck of the hen ; 

Thus I go for suffrage with the ladies, 
To right all the wrongs mortal's can ; 

"Nine tailors" make a very spruce fellow, 
But a o-ood woman is the "better half of man 



WAR, AND IT'S HEROES, 



What is war '? a theatre ! 

The world the broad stage, 
Where heroes enact melodrama, 

The bursting of canon 
Is the orchestra play'd. 

The foot-lights, the eye of its gianiom ; 
Its the scourge of tyrants. 

The shield for oppressed 
The nursling of brave deeds and glory, 

A great black demon 
That spreads out its wings. 

Who's pinions and plumage are gory. 

War is a great trust 

That calls men to arms 
To bravely face death in the battle, 

And never to yield 
With the foe on the field, 

Until death and the last shot has rattled,- 
When the clarion sounds wide 

O'er the vale antl the tide — 



IS War and its Heroes. 

We note nil apalled by the palor, 

But we know craven power - 

Must yield to the hour 

For right is the breast plate of valor. 

War is a great agony, 

Where the nations' life 
And hapi»iriess that cannot be measured, 

Depends on brave men 
No loe can alarm. 

And ^lie loyalty to country that's treasured : 
The roar of the battle, 

Its "thunderous sounds'' 
Drives millions to death and to madness, 

But the fife and the drum , 
When with peans they come, 

The nations re-echo their gladnesa. 
War is a deep maelstrom 

Drawing- everything in 
That is made up of brain, bone and muscle, 

But woe to the clan 
Who cannot withstand 

The charge in this great mighty tussle ; 
The race is "not to the swift" 

If oppression the wrong, 
Though led by a chieftain like Nero; 

O'er the brow of the brave 
Should the laurel only wave 

Whom God and the right makes a hero. 



War and its Heroes. Ill) 

War is a great passion 

Sublime in its wrath, 
Yet devilisli in its swelling emotion; 

But peace, like a lamb. 
Lies down in tlie fold 

Where freedom is the god of devotion. 
No gift on the green earth 

Is greater than this, 
With the stars and the stripes for your banner. 

May liberty' s fold 
Float out o'er the world 

Until millions shall cry its liosanHa. 



THOUGHTS GLEAN D IK THE STUBBLE, 



Here through the stubble I waudered 
Gleaning- for truth and for light, 

Recking not time daily squandered 

Garnering thoughts that were bright. 

Weaving a web of odd fancies, 

Shimmering with beauty, and fine 

As the Tfleshes spun by the spider. 
To catch all that crosses my line. 

Scratching the leaves from the mosses 
To look for the greenness long hid, 

Noting the growth, and grubbing 
When no one suspected I did. 

Hunting the folious of nature 

To find her teachings were stern ; 
To be sought with a zeal untiring, 

Though rank in their growth as the fei-n. 

Catching the dew drops that glistened 
On the honey suckle vine of old time 
That sweeten'd the breath of the morning 

Long e'er the vintage of wine. 



TliougTiU Gleaned in, the StahhU. \'l\ 

I^ife is full of buds unci of blossoms, 
But, only when tended with care, 

Will they fill our souls with sweetness 
Or bloom to a beauty that's rare. 

The loam must be dug, where the mosses 
Sleep under the drifts of the storm. 

And set in the sunniest window 

Of a home that is love-lit and warm. 

Then the roses that grow by the liedges 
Will brighten the way for your feet ; 

You will note not the thorns or the brambles 
Where the days are both sunny and sweet. 

If the stubble of life makes you foot-sore 
You must onward, nor think of a stop, 

Tho' the harvest you thought would be golden 
Has been stole for some old buzzard's crop. 

You are heir to a wealth that is earth-locked, 

To pick it, no crime or a sin, 
All you need is the courage to labor, 

And no shame if you honestly win. 

To plow on the great, western prairie, 
To work for your honey and bread 

<'By the sweat of your brow" is far sweeter 
Than to lie on a thief's downy bed. 



123 . lliouglits Oleaii'd in the Stubble. 

The days mark the growth of the seasons, 
Aud the years the growth of the mind ; 

But the seed of progression, long scattered, 
Will, through labor, her harvest due find. 

Then shun not the marsh where the mallow 

Grows thick befitting its place ; 
For the great law of labor was never 

Designed mankind to disgrace. 

Such nations are woven with shoddy. 

Bad wool from degenerate flock, 
Heir-looms of the old, ancient pillory 

Where the necks of ye ancestors were stocked " 

When I find the big bugs 'mong the gleanings 
I scratch them with bill and with pen ; 

While 1 claim but the rights of the hunted, 
Aye, the flight of an old 

Prairie Heu. 



HUMAN WANTS AND HUMAN HUNTERS. 



I marvel as I note the ways of life, 

And man's ambition, 
Whose nerve and brain with surging blood 
Is bound by a condition 
To tempt so far the line of fate, 

Ah, then, you must be turning. 
Or else your brain will telegraph 

Some part of flesh that 's burning. 

The motive prompt the will to dare. 

But conscience says its risky ; 
For years of sorrow, sin and shame 

Are jug' d for you in whisky ; 
Thus natures law doth bind the will, 

And not v\ ithout a reason. 
For mankind here is ever bent 

To riot — which is treason. 

Law hunts the criminal for offence 

And moral degradation ; 
Who knows what blood is in his veins 

Whose follies his relation ? 



124 Human Wants and Human Hunters 

Me sinks below the brute, but note, 
Inherits some good graces, 

Of him who lawfully did cheat, but left 
Bad blood and silly faces. 

The lirst drank wine, respected codes, 

The challenge, dirk and pistol ; 
His [)rodigy, wiien whisky mad, 

His ball will past you wliistle ; 
Many, with money, buy the judge 

To 'mute the lawful sentence 
To set them up as graduates, 

With priests to seek repentance. 

The others go the way of all 

Graded by whisky bottl e ; 
The Almighty law must be appeased. 

And so liis neck you throttle. 
We need the law that none dispute, 

But we do — the money handy 
That buys the right to save by law 

A high-toned thief or dandy . 

But human wants and human weal 
We still do rudely jostle, 

To do by them as Christ would wish 
Is still among the fossel. 



Human Wants and Human Hitnters. 125 

We liinit the crimp, but sell the right 

To sin — the ranlver treason. 
Then justify the act and <lee<l 

By laAv and windy reason. 

Now if the law and reason hold 

For life among the trenches, 
"Why not to sift a gram of truth 

Through petyfog and benches? 
There 's much of sin in broadcloth sure. 

I simply ask the question: 
Where is the point that does divide 

The sins of saint from fustian ? 

Should we repent in sackcloth — ali ! 

The thought comes here in flashes ; 
To cover all the human sins 

We miglit fall short of ashes ; 
Thus justice hunts the human race, 

The crimes among the masses, 
Hut the finest point in law to tell 

The thorough-breds from asses. 

When out amid the stubble-fields 

I never cease to marvel, 
And wonder if the tangled ways 

This age will yet unravel. 
The rights of women, wrongs of men, 

Where to divide the cradle . 
Behind what bar the biggest knave. 

Which side is most unstable. 



HOW OLD 



A dandy dress' d fellow 

In broad-cloth and plug, 
Stepped into a car 

And over the rug- ; 
Bowed gracefully to an old man^ 

Shook heartily his hand 
Where the cool breeze of summer 

His brew gently fan'd. 

"We have met before, 

Tho' I can't call your name ;'' 
"No doubt," with a look 

Bewildered or feigned, 
" You seem very hearty 

Tho' your grey hairs bespeak 
More years than the wrinkles 

That furrow your cheek." 

"How old do you call yourself?" 
Slill holding his hand, 

"If I may make bold 

With a grey bearded man ;" 



''Bow OldV 127 

"Well, my name is Cotton 

More homespun than fine, 
After that comes my father's 

The whole name to combine. 

*'I have traveled much 

Since T met you before — 
There's my toe for your impudence, 

Ahead the car door ; 
My a^e, my dear sir, 

You greatly mistook, 
I'm too old to loose 

My old luther book. 

The dandy made tracks 

"Without much delay. 
Forgetting the compliments 

Of a hasty good-day ; 
While T, eating plums 

Like little Jack Horner, 
Thought that little joker 

Caught the Jack on the corner. 



To MY SISTER. 



ilow strange it is we knoAV the right 

Yet oft the wrong pursue, 
Spurning the happiness beyond 

That waits the good and true ; 
No joy can come to such their life 

Has nought but what is ill, 
'i'hey only walk life's hidden path 

Led by a stubborn will. 

Loves gentle voice no echo's find 

Within their dull, cold breast 
They find no joy in life or friends. 

Their spirit has no rest ; 
No eye responds to loving glance. 

No heart-beat gives them pain, 
Like those who suffer, but to wait 

For what may come again. 

Friends gather "round us when we give 
Them tender words and smiles. 

And sister it is better far, 

Though they wrong us all the wdiile ; 



To Mil l^iMei" 1-ci) 

Some sacralice wc ought to make 

In feelings for each other, 
I never find the task to hard, 

When done for sake of motlier. 

For 1 remember how her love 

Has shadowed all my years, 
Her gentle kindness shielded acts 

That caused her many tears ; 
Be kind and thoughtful for her wants, 

Her drafts on us are small 
Contrasted with the love and toil 
Spent on her children all. 

The weary years have slowly passed. 

Her hair grows white with age ; 
May we all strive to turn for her 

Life's brightest, fairest page ; 
For every blessing, great or small, 

Shared here with one another, 
God only gives to each and all 

" The love of but one mother." 



THE SHRINES, THE GOLDEN CALF 
AND THE WORSHIPPERS. 



PILES of brick and marble, grand and fine, 
Where the costly pilgrims daily come 

To offer on the shrines 

Greenbacks and gold ; 
Where poor souls are tortured by the wiles and 
smiles 

Of naughty clerks, 
Who cannot find the styles, in shade or fold 

To suit the suit seekers. 
Thus I heard one moan — 

" Dear Mr. Yardstick, we have travel'd 
. all the day 
(Hunting a pretty fellow,)— no idle play, 

(Trying to catch, ) 
For this most lovely color, "moon on the lake" 

A perfect match, 
And still we seek among the shams and Sams 

For samples. 
Poor tapering bodies. 

How hard your fate alack ! 
To travel over mountains of despair 



The Shrines and the Worshippers \'-u 

Like mules with packs, 
Jvlade uj) of Storey's paper, 
idumping, like them. 
Your back. 
But still your strength will surely bear you on 
To Field's where Leiter's colors never fail to 

match, 
If your poor pa can scratch 
Enough to pay the bill. 

No matter if it leaves an empty till ; 
Here you can sun and sum your styles and soul. 
Here waste the hours and sweetness. 
Here bill to bank your gold. 
Where follies rule, 

Where grace and fashion sway, 
Where strong temptations lead the weak astray, 

Wnere envy riots. 
Where the green eyes shade, 

(Jontrastiag calico with stiif brocade. 
Where come the tine, the fair, the frail, ah ! many 

Who have no regal sense to guide them 
When, or how, or where to spend their penny ; 
Who buy because it is the fashion, not their 
needs. 
And force their actual wants to mournful weeds, 
And then, when Samuel growls. 
Grows crusty o' er his tea 
Wishing so many naughty things spel'd with a D. 



The Shrines and the Worshipers. 

How droopy grow your styles at home, 

Telling how pa 
Never let such trifles light as these 

His spirit jar. 
What sorry pictures pen and ink could paint 
Of female weakness not confined to saint, 
rUit trailing after young and old, 
From church to dirty docks, 
Behind tlie butcher's wife and she whose 
Husband steals, (ah, deals) in stocks. 
Ye fashion- worshipers, how unbecoming 
Your ribbons are — how very stunning 
The gilded chains you wear outside 

Your cloak. 
To say "our Father"' I should think. 
Would choke (your pride) 
With want and misery grim and gaunt 

Your path beside ; 
The golden calf you worship makes you thin, 

Wears out Sam's patience and devours his tin; 
He is no calf of straw. 
Content with stubble ; but you must 
Feed him higli, and fee 

Him double. Stalled in high 
Places, if he capers or does cater, 

He nods — you lose — he tallies tiths 
your bills and checks your paper. 

Poor martyrs ! queens of pave and palaces ; 



The Shrines and the Worshippers lo 

Your wasted lives, rich in nothing 

But its naughty falacies ; 
Crow ned and gilded with the softest metal, 

Because you are so softish — ah ! woe man. 
When you sweep by ; in my despair 

1 note what ragged, dirty, trails you wear- 
Storm-tossed on pave and wave of fashion 
When your sails and strings do flutter, 
I stutter — "please sample for repair — ' 
And don' t be always matching, 
What then ? I hide again. 
Knowing if you could catch the wretch 

You 'd wring the neck of this old he n — 
And check her scratching-. 



LET ME SLEEP. 



LET me sleep where no marble 

Shall cover the mound, 
Where the hills and the valleys lie warm, 

Where the wild flowers and grass 
May grow, wave and bloom, 

Only moved when they sway to the storm. 

I should restless lie. 

If the cold granite stone 
Lay heavily o'er my breast, 

For the spirit to God 
Delectable would soar 

Where the weary, untroubled, may rest. 

Let the green sod cover 

Me over so light, 
The night dews can filter the soil, 

Where no hand or trowel 
lias tilled the fresh earth, 

Its wild, native beauty to spoil. 



Let Me ISleep 

I have stood many times 

By luonLiinents liigh, 
To feel but a sliud'riiig dread 

Of the cold grey shadows 
That drifted across 

The graves of the unloved dead. 

There you trace and carve, 

On the marble fair, 
Floral gift for the death- wing' d dove, 

, But it brings no throb 
\o the heart now still, 

That in life was starved for your love. 



The wild rose that sweetens 

The air on the heath, 
Uncarress'd by tiller of the soil. 

Brings us nearer to God, 
For his hand guides the bud 

To be beautiful, unmarr'd by life toil. 

Then despoil not my resting-place 

With emblem of pride. 
That will cause e'en a shadow to creep, 

Let the sun warm the seed 
And the bloom will be fair 

O'er my low grave memento to keep. 



136 Let Me 



Where the sigh of the breeze, 

Like (Elian harp, 
Softly whispers the long summer through; 

Where the wild bird does poise, 
In serial flight, 

To sip from the blue-bell the dew. 

O'er my dreamless rest, 

May the golden-hued sun 
Light the dawn to the evening clouds deep, 

Where thoughts still' d to prayer, 
By the hush on the air 

Whisper my beloved doeth sleep. 



ODE TO THE BEAUTIFUL WATERS OF 
OCONOMOWOC, 



Ooono ! Ocono ! lovly wnters so pure, 

The life-healino- breeze of thy bahiiy winds are sure, 
Here, no taint of the world pales the beautiful g'reen 

Whose bowers of beauty thiongh thy summer are 
The trees droop their branches cj^race fully low, Tseen ; 

Just kissing- the dash of thy waters below, 
Where I've watched the bright clouds mirror' d in peace 

Gliding on by the rain-bow that spaneth the East. 

The song of the bird and the dip of his wing- 
By thy banks and these waters to life give a tinge, 

, As bright as the clouds that pale on our sight 

These soft summer evenings to the silver of night ; 

The white-crested foam that lies 'round thy shore 
Reminds me of beauty I 've read of in*lore, 

Like the delicate ruff, fair girlhood might wear 

Making fairer the bloom by the white circling there. 

May thy musical waves lull all passion to rest, 
Be they wicked or weary, who toss on thy breast, 

And the murmuring winds as they waft them along 
Whisper life is the sweeter the freer of wrong ; 



138 Ode to the Beauii/nl Waters of Oconomowoc. 

May no trail of the serpent cover thy vin« 

Or curse this Eden of nature devine, 
May purity here with thy summer bloom come, 

Dwelling; in safty from badness and rum. 

Sweet baby blossoms the buds of the spring, 

Here like tlie wild-bird blessing should bring 
Caroling sweetness on the free air 

Knowing no sorrow while life is so fair ; 
Here should the heads silvered by time 

Grow in the graces that truth make* sublime ; 
Here may no blight life' s golden sheaves bear, 

Love and prosperity ever my prayer. 

Long in my memory a picture I '11 keep 

Of this still, quiet evening, all nature aileep, 

This green, sloping hill-side where sunbeams are caught 
Making life here beautiful, — Oconomowoc ! 



THE BONE OF CONTENTION. 

With a Rash Moral. 



'I'he night before Christmas 

Not far from towu, 

Two middle-aged people 

By their lire-side sat down ; 
liy the frown on their face 

And the look of their eye, 
I surmized for the twain 

That trouble was nigh. 
During forty-three years 

They onward had wended, 
The wife worked the hardest 

And kept everything mended ; 
She 'rose first in the morning 

To kindle a fire, 
And cook a nice breakfast 

To suit his desire. 
Thus she managed by pinching, 

Saving butter and stuff, 
To buy all her clothes 

And now and then a ruff; 



14U The Bone of Contention. 

But he often borrowed 

Of her small little store, 
Until this kind of business 

Became quite a bore, 
His harvest was golden 

But he hoarded it all ; 
And still on his wife's purse 

Continued to call. 
The trouble between them 

Grew too warm for my story, 
And by Christmas the tiling 

Was a young purgatory, 
And trying in vain 

The whole fuss to mend, 
They called in to aid them 

A neighboring friend. 
She was an old lady 

In the furnace long tried, 
And a mother of wisdom 

With experience wide ; 
As she drew on her socks 

To go at their call, i 

She look'd like a martyr 

To humanity all ; 
For her time and her patience 

"Was worn by demands 
So constantly urged 

On this old lady's hands ; 



Thv Bone of Contention. 141 

I gave a sly wink 

As she passed from the house, 
livery feature composed, 

Her step like a mouse, 
And I said to myself, 

The pork and hash story 
Will again be re-hashed 

In all of its glory. 
I will here make digression 

To tell you the joke, 
And swear it 's no fiction. 

By the power I invoke. 
Away in the East, 

Not f\ir from the "Hub,'' 
This couple first settled 

Their domestic tnb. 
And nearing the time ~ 

When the honey-moon waned, 
This lord of the manor, 

Thinking he wns ordained 
By the preacher who spliced them, 

To lord it o'er her, 
About his breakfast 

Began to demur, 
^' Hash !" said he, '• I won't eat it !" 

And this mascviline tall 
Threw the odious hash 

AH over the wall. 



142 The Bone of Contention. 

"And this greasy pork, 

To eat that I won't," 
And the pork followed hash 

On the floor at the front. 
Tlie hash on the wall 

Looked badly enough, 
But the grease on her floor 

Her spirits did crush. 
That white pine floor 

She had scrubbed for dear life, 
To make his home pleasant. 

Like a dutiful wife; 
She stood a few moments, 

The whole thing surv^ey'd, 
Then moved a few steps 

To pick up the babe . 
As she folded the boy 

In maternal embrace, 
Though young in her motherhood, 

She boldly did face 
This lord of the manor. 

And quietly spoke, 
"To me, John Doughface, 

This is no joke ; 
You provided — I cooked 

What you saw fit to bring, 
And now, right here, 

I vow to one thing, 



The Bone of Contention. 148 

Yon must pick up that breakfast 

W?isted like swill, 
And eat il . 

Or go to my mother I will ; 
And never again 

Beyond your door 
Will I or this child 

Cross your threshold o'er; 
His temper had cooled, 

The liash was well mixed, 
But he was in a 

Most damnable fix ; 
Disgrace ahead 

'"That 's what "s the matter," 
As he spooned up his diet 

On to the platter. 
He spoke not a word. 

His mien it was meek, 
As true as the Gospel 

He ate up his meat ; 
Ah ! but all day long. 

By the look of his phiz, 
The grease on his stomach 

I think must have riz . 

To go back to my story, 

The years rolled apace 



144 The Bone of Contention, 

Bringing much tribulation 

But t think no disgrace ; 
Yet lie doled out his money, 

All the harder she worked 
While his coifers grew richer 

The "voser" he shirked. 
The lines on her face 

Grew deeper with care, 
But few, as a bride, 

i hear, were more fair ; 
And a secret unrest 

Ever lay at her heart, 
In which neither friend 

Or the world had a part ; 
Now this brings us back 

To the hour and the eve 
When a mediator came 

To these parties aggrieved 
The old lady spoken of 

In the first verse, 
I need not again 

To you here rehearse, 
But playing Asmodius 

I entered the roof, 
And stole all the facts 

To write in this proof, 
The old man was churning 
Away at the butter, 



The Bone of Gontention. 145 

When flurried he has 

A perceptible stutter ; 
The wife, as usual, 

Was doing the chores, 
Made up of dish- washing 

And scrubbing tlie lioors. 
TliQ lady walked in, 
They oifered a chair. 

She quietly took it, 
With preoccupied air. 

And waited for them. 
After the greeting 

To decide who and which 
Should open the meeting; 

The wife's heart vras full, 
ikit he like a stock 

Prepared to stand 
An earth-quake shock. 

"She told her story 
Of wrongs long endured. 

Of the weary, we=iry years 
From toil not insured ; 

Of how he ever 
Had lorded it much. 

Over her and her conscience 
Until to God it was such 

She could bear it no longer 
And live, though disgrace "^ 



40 The, Bone of Contention. 

Should never be lifted 
From home or her face.'' 

These two old people 
Grown grey with the years, 

In battle array, 
Through trials and tears, 

Grew fierce in their wrath 
And fought for their rights, 

Eight under the wings 
Of God" s Christmas night. 

"I gave her, said he 

Four thousand in gold, 
When a few years since, 

Many acres I sold." 
' 'She help'd you to earn it" — 

That was a stub 
Put in by the mediator, 

Just for a rub. 
'*He wants to get off, 

Says "this place is 'ut sound,' 
And is trying to sell, 

All n e have in the town. 
I have dragged 'round the world 

Until I 'm nearly worn out, 
While he has grown tired of me 

Of that, there 's no doubt ; 
Let him do his best. 

All we 've got to sell, 



Thd Bone of Ui'iuentioii. 1 i; 

L swear I won't sign 

Spite of — ' [o\\ ! naughty pen don t tell. 
Then up spoke the mediator: 

"Hushed be your wrath, 
God joined you together 

And marked out a patii; 
You ve trod it together 

Through many long years, 
Better 'bide still together 

Through trials and tears ; 
Your wife has worked hard 

And helpd you to e;i.rn ; 
You admit this mueh, 

TJien why do you turn 
Aud say no provision 

For her you will make, 
Unless in the future 

She still come at your beck ? 
She says for your children 

You will not provide ; 
And a good many tricks 

Which belittle yonr hide 
She's concealed from the world. 

Until her conscience doth howl. 
And she feels she shall surely 

Toot like an owl. 
Where will this all end ? 

In shame and disgrace ; 



148 TJie Bone of Contention. 

To be quit of each other, 

You will make too great haste ; 
The time sure will come 

Though now so contrary, 
When you'd gladly come back 

To your old wife Mary. 
Supposing you separate, 

What will you do 
To make all even 

Between her and you? '' 
"Well, I "11 give her a third 

Of all I possess, 
¥o\' I cannot live in this way 

I 'm frank to confess. " 
"Dividing your interest, 

But living still here. 
Who would provide 

For the house b 
"We would each do for self 

Whatever we wish'd. 
Keeping ever between us 

A. separate dish .' ' 
"Now stop for a moment, 

To travel this way 
You '11 find in the end 

It s no idle play ; 
You will then as now 

Continue to fight, 



The Bone of (Jontentioru 14*.' 

While the bone of contention 

Will be money and rights, 
(lere 's a daughter to school 

To clothe and to feed, 
Whose right will it be 

To i>rovide for her need '?" 
"I will give her a thousand 

And that must suffice." 
"But that would be niggardly 

In most people's eyes. 
Between you twain 

Let this crazy thing end, 
And continue to live 

Like old lovers and friends ; 
You each have your duties, 

Each should have rights, 
And yield to them gracefully, 

Not force them by lights ; 
Love one another, 

Is my blessing and prayer. 
And I think you '11 agree 

To do what is fair. 
Your lives will be cursed 

If you thus do divide, 
,Aud go from each other, 

To roam far and wide; 
This is all I can do, 

To wish you both weii, 



150 The Booe of Contention. 

Hoping you both in peace 

In the future may dwell." 
As the old lady bade them 

A graceful good-bye, 
I felt inc'ined thusly, 

A moral to try. 
To all married people, 

Oil each Christmas night. 
To renew all the old vows 

And try to do right. 
Be lovely together, 

Do nothing blind. 
For all your weak points 

Your wife sure will find. 
But if you should quarrel, 

Pray do nothing rash, 
And beware of the future, 

If 3'^ou ever spill hash; 
For hash is a mixture 

That seldom sets well. 
And what it is made of 

Poor cooks never tell. 
If your temper should rise, 

Spill no fat ol the swine, 
When your breakfast don't suit, 

Or the meal where you dine. 
For the grease of a hog 

If it chance to be hot, 



The Bone of Contention. ir.l 

Wherever it falls 

Makes a very bad spot. 
Proves the times are so billions, 
' And the fact withont donbt, 

That late years the grease spots 

Are seldom washed ont. 
If in the morning of life 

The V7ife had her vray, 
Time proved he forgave not, 

And the fnture must pay. 
He [>aid it with interest, 

Showed her 't was no frolic, 
For in sixty years it ceased not 

To give him the colic. 
''Sink or swim," '* live or die," 

Whatever prevails, 
Better bide still together 

Nor try for entails. 
For these marital relations 

Make the gossips all sneeze, 
And whisper — "the old rat !" 

Dont tell if you please. 
Thus endeth my story, 

And here I declare 
By the "new Pilgrims' Progress,'' 

To both 1 've been fair. 
In their orthodox faith 

May they travel toward God, 



152 The Bone of Gontention, 

And at last sleep together 

Under Nature's green sod. 

In writing this story 

I 've avoided dereliction, 

Since modern life, now days. 
Is stranger than fiction. 



FACTS AND FANCIES. 

or an Old Lady^s experience in Farming. 



A great commotion in the house 

Caused by rumors from the farm ; 
Some of the heirs in line direct 

Are surely quite alarmed ; 
Grand-ma is on the qui-vive, 

Expecting daily news, 
The stages are so very slow 

She faily gets the blues ; 
The master is so late to tea 

Increases apprehension, 
And Grand-ma watching, wonders what 

Has ca,used this long detention. 

She sighs and dreams she sees the farm 

In reckless ruin laid ; 
The cedar poles have all been cut 

And naught for them been paid ; 
The shanghais have forgot to crow, 

Perchance, their necks were wrung ; 
By the simmering of the farm-house pot 

She hears their requium sung. 



154 FacU and Fanciest, 

Her ancient coach, minus the top, 

That carried her to '"meeting-," 
Seems like all transitory things 

Just on the eve of fleeting ; 
Old jack has graced its thills so long^ 

Will you believe it when 
I tell you that 's been offered up 

For just a paltry ten. 

Just three times three 

With added six 
Would number all her dams, 

And one besides the pride of these 
She counts her blooded ram ; 

News coming of declining wool 
Roused her to bet a button, 

This was a speculator's plea 
To get too cheap her mutton . 

The next report that came to hand 

Told of a hog diseased, 
And this of course aroused her ire 

Which nothing could appease ; 
She thought her eldest son was crazed 

H« spoke so very rough, 
Advising her to ' 'fling away 

Her pork as d — d old stuff ; ' ' 
This little corn-fed hog had been 

Her most especial charge, 



Factn and Fancies. 155 

And she designed him for to feed 

Her family so large ; 
All summer in her tater fields 

He did her murphy s dig, 
'^'Good heavens !" she cried, 
The end has come 

They 've cuss'd my titmain pig. 



LIFE'S MYSTEKIES. 



Oh, God ! mysterious are Tliy ways, 
Since the first sunny rays 

Flooded the world with light ; 
No wills of ours defend, 
On Thee we all depend 

From birth to death's dark night. 

Dear friend, how bright the gleams 
We 've had of thee in dreams — 

Too fair to last ; 
Brave for the right, too soon 
Death's blight o'er thy fair bloom 

It's gloom has cast. 

Was there no human skill 
E'en thy disease could quell, 

No hand could stay. 
No love that held thee back, 
From the dark, dismal track 

That points the "narrow way .'' 

Strong in thy faith, and pure. 
It helped thee to endure 

The pangs no tongue can tell ; 
To leave thy loved ones fair 
In the "good Father's care," 

"Who doeth all things well," 



TO THE PARENTS OF A YOUNG MAN WHO 
ACCIDENTALLY SHOT HIMSELF. 



I come with a heart full of sadness, 

Your grief aud your soi row to share ; 
Oh, why is your life so o'er-burdeued, 

It seems more than mortal can bear. 
Tliis child, in the freshness of boyhood, 

Though wayward, he tried you at times, 
Still you had a strong hope in his future, 

For he was the last of your line. 

The mysteries of life grow deeper. 

The longer the span of our years, 
Bringing doubts of the Good Father's wisdom, 

When afflicted with sorrow and tears. 
The world, by his death, points a lesson, 

But now he lies under the sod, 
It is safe, wherever his spirit, 

To trust him alone with his God. 

For I feel that the dead are immortal, 

That float from our presence unseen — 

^'Not lost," for God, in His promise, 

Has said that ''His pastures are green/' 



To the Parents of a Young Man who Shot Himself. 

To you the spring turf will look greener, 
The bloom of the summer more fair. 

While the golden liued tints of the autumn 
Will soften by sorrow to prayer. 

There is peace for those who lie sleeping, 

A-t rest from the turmoils of life, 
The cares of the busy years ended 

No more to be vexed by their strife : 
You both growing old here together 

Have out-lived youth's summer of joy. 
But to each may the other be drearer 

While you grieve o'er the loss of your boy ; 
The last bond of love's earlier union, 

A broken link now on life' s page, 
God will'd it — may it guide you still nearer 

To him — ^beyond the clouds of your silver old 



FROM STUBBLE TO MARKET, 



My pen or pencil may not quote, 

The grains of thought correct. 
Or bill them for the market, 

" Graded select.'" 
Since I did gather them irregular, 

Working for my porridge, 
Where grammar was not taught, 

Or women booked 
Brain wise enough for college. 

But fortune, the " fickle jade " 

Has been unfair, 
And I resolved to waste no longer. 

My greenness on the prairie air, 
To work and scratch my way from poverty- 

Not born of shame. 
Out of the cold, to the buttered 

Side of life again. 

What more do we poor mortals need ? 

You looked surprised because I add: 
A few old styles remodeld, 

Thoughts revised. 



rrom ■:>((/ rxnr lo Muncei, 

Brings me to muscle, 

That must have meat, 
And all who he)-e would eat. 

The bread of honest labor, must strive 
To win by brain or hand. 

The honey for their hive. 

TiiLis have i toiled for sweets, 

F'orwool to spin my yarn. 
Which may be "shoddy, ' 

Yet its warmtli is better for adversity 
Than airer styles. 

Fashion quotes " nobby. ' 
Far from Minnesota's iields of stubble— 

This old hen atrial 
lias winged her way to where you buy 
And sell the cereal ; 

Here in Chieago folds her wings. 
To olfer this edition — 

Where my father, brother. 
Bought and worked 
For their commission — 

Here I do seek a bid for this volume — 
Serious and funny — 

Because I need to work — 
Nay bluff- 
Like you, for money. 



From Ht.ii.hhle to Murket. i'-l 

Your city luis a homr; foi- ;ill, 

A ^i-octiu^ r;iir 
For those wlio liavc the will lo strives 

Tlu! i>liick to tlaro. 
To compensate the workers for theii' l;i.sk, 

WJiat more can labor of tlie world JKne askV 
Driven h.ere by adverse gales, 

And a bloated snob, 
\V ho tlioujflit it would be bettei- 

To look faither for a, job. 
I bless the guidinf^ star of fate, 

That led me to these 
Shoics, tho' late. 

To find my diimer 
For I have a will to work and failh to wait 

Like any saint or sinner. 
My heritage was "Shortage,'' 

On my father s gain, 
But what was better far, 

lie will d me an honest name. 
No bank was ever corner" d 

On his check, 
His wheat did all inspect. 

Good as the gold, 
And to his Maker his bill of laden bore 

The record of an unsold soul. " '^ 



If) 2 From Shcbble to Market, 

I still remember this 

And ask no favor of your will — 
Unless you find the measure square, 

That checks the bill. 
Hoping there is no samj^le book'd 

Unfit to table, 
For running- rhyme like cargo, 

Will shift, and when you drift 
You need to change the anchor, 

Line and cablo. 
With little time to choose, 

What chain of thought will hold. 
To keep a lightly laden' d bark off short- 
Where rocks abound 

And critics turn wreckers bold. 
Thus rides my bark at anchor, 
With folded sail and wing, 
Fearing a blow. 
But if you give support 

I need not fear the undertow ; 
Praying you will not mark me, 
''Shed rejected," 

"Too much screenings" — 
W]iile I wait for you to buy at "option' 

INTy gleanings ; 
Here like Ruth of old with barley 
Gathered in my hand, 



From Stubble to Market. 101 

I rest beneath the shade — 
Timid, afraid — 
Not knowing whether these wild flowers 
Will prove an "Eastern Star"' of hope 
Whose gain will double, 

Or leave me with clip'd wing- 
Beating against the stubble. 
Where most respectfully 
I do pen— , 

Yours truly, 

An Old Prairie Hen. 



POSTSCRIPT. 



It is an old adage that a woman never tinishes a 
letter without a p. s. and fearing I iiiight be haunted 
with a duty negiebted I have decided to kee]> the tra- 
dition good as one of the female rigms never yet dis- 
puted by mankind, thus I come to close this little vol- 
ume with a post-script I'ievelation, and a strange coin- 
cident that occui-red before this book was ever thought 
of by the author, but in the end became Sdentitied with 
the work. 

I shall simply give the facts. Two years ago 1 was 
spending the summer in a count) y town not far from 
Chicago — during the time i was there I was awaken'd 
at mid-niglU, from a deep sleep by the report of a gun 
that sounded like a ride, shot oft' at the back of my 
head. I was alone in the room at the time, and, as the 
house was a farm house with nothing to tempt a bur- 
glar, concluded something must have blown down, (al- 
though it was a still, sultry night) having no fears of 
nocturnal visitors and hearing nothing more I soon 
fell asleep. I related the circumstances next morning 
to the family (who had heard nothing) and thought no 
more about it. A number of weeks after, I heard it 
again in the dead hours of the night, the same sharp 
rifle report at the back of my head . My husband at 
this time, was off in the wheat fields of Iowa with a 
party of hunters "bagging chickens," and I felt wor- 



Postscript. 165 

ried over the sti-ange affair. I said to my friends 
again, somebody mnst be after me, with a rifle; buti 
getting- news from the hunters daily, my anxiety was 
lulled and I forgot all about the mid-night gun. Leav- 
ijig the farm soon after, and becoming absorbed in 
otiier things, with new ideas, I wrote my piece entit- 
tled, "Pen Skeletons of the Brain." I thought seri- 
ously of otrering it (or publicat ion to a local magazine 
in a neighboring city, but my courage failed and T 
laid it >iway among my self-rejected literary papers. 

8/3Veral months after I made another visit to the 
farm house and a fuw nights after my arrival, I was 
awakened again by a rifle report, (this was the third 
time always in the same place, and sleeping alone. I 
asked myself what does this mean ? I discussed it 
with the family next morning, as a very singular affair' 
and they knowing my utter disbelief in spiritualism, 
hobgoblins, dreams, etc., felt like myself it was very 
strange; but as we could find no solution to the mys- 
terious gun, it passed as a nine days wonder, " and 
outward bound.'' I forgot in the excitement of travel 
and change the skeleton hunter who I fancied was 
after my head. Shortly after my husband became a 
resident of Chicago, hoping in this great field of work 
for all, to win back a portion of a competency that had 
been scratched away from ns by a " double entry " 
pen-holder (who did not leave us a dry loaf of bread. ) 
I had remodeled my old styles until they had lost all 
semblance of the original cut-cloth or color, and were 
too original^ for admittance into toney society, leav- 
ing me worse off than " Miss Flora McFlimsey," with 
nothing to do, as well as " nothing to wear.'' To covet 
is wicked, (daily practiced) but who ever heard of its 



166 PosUcHjU. 

paying a meat bill or a milliner. " K\\ idle tongaie 
leads to gossip,'' like "idle hands to mischief," by 
putting the latter to work the former would find no 
time to retail scandal or fashion. This decided me to 
try and win a penny loaf for a dyspeptic stomach, and 
mayhaps a dollar for a dyspeptic purse, (with pen and 
brain. ) To work for bread, is a stronger incentive to 
labor, than to write for fame, for you can eat the 
foimer, but on the latter you would starve if hungry, 
and freeze with the thermometer below zero. For 
weeks I wrote and scratched under the depressed feel- 
ing I should never dare publish. On the night of Feb. 
12, 1874, [ retired to rest, weary and disappointed 
with my literary eftbits — long past midnight I was 
awakened from a deep sleep by the boom of a gun — 
while, at the same time, there seemed to flash light to 
my eyes, and a voice, more to my sense of thought 
than sound to the ear, said, ''this hook is your gun.'' 
I was so startled I awakened my husband and related 
the occurance ; He like myself never has been a believ- 
er in • spirit manifestations. But I must admit for 
truth's sake, I felt as if a load had been lifted from heart 
and brain ; My work grew pleasant and labor light 
1 had been dissatisfied all along at the name I had se- 
lected for the book as it was not original enough to 
suit me and I discarded it, although I had none in view. 
A. short time after, (the one which now graces its cov_ 
ers) came to me like a revelation, with this unique de- 
sign, to have the mysterious gun revealed in this way, 
(as I had not thought of it in connection with this book 
and in fact, did not attempt it until more than a year 
after the first gun,) has led me to these reflections, that 
reason has been the bond-slave of theology for ages? 



PosUcript. 1(>T 

and tlie world li;is trucl<led to it, forgettinj; that God 
created it as broad as the grand prairies of Illinois,pro- 
lific in its growth as the wild grasses, but black witli 
darkness as these Western acres after a prnirie lire; 
because the liell-fire doctrins have dried all the saj) at 
its roots, and burnt the living life out of the seed; but 
the shackles of old isms are burnt assunder by their 
own brimstone, and the'dawn of soul freedom, whoso 
germ has survived the pilgrims and bloody wars of 
''fighting believers" is budding to blossom in a purer 
faith that God is the fatlier of all, instead of God the 
preacher who did with Adam fall. Scoff as we \\v.\\. 
at these strange phenomena, we still live amid 
the mysteries of life and the world, and I believe 
the prophet is unborn who can "pluck a quill fiom the 
wing of time,"' and trace from lowly life to sublime 
realities, the great unsolved problems of humanity, 
whose germ is hid from science, whose future is beyond 
creeds, in the hands of the glorious giver, God; 

In conclusion, I would say to me, there is a strong 
combination in these events that may baffle the divin. 
itory jjowers of "dream believer" of such I ask these 
questions. 

Was the brother who died from starvation in the 
rocky mountains, the skeleton hunter whose rifle 1 
heard so rnany times at midnight? or did the gifted 
brother long since dead, cover me witli his mantle of 
poesy, whom I unconsciously invoked in my pen skel" 
eton of the brain. 

Strangest of all, did my pet sister who died in the 
l)loom of girl-hood, leaving a memento of her M'ork in 
a beautiful herbaniun of wild flowers, suggest to me 
also at midnijrht the orioinal desion and title of this 



168 ' PosUcript. 

book. It is a problem I cannot solve and leave it to- 
wiser heads to ponder an answer, "from the humblest 
instruments good is sometimes accomplished" and, if 
any one finds a grain of truth between these covers or 
a pleasant thought for a dull hour the wish and hope 
of the writer of these pages will be fulfiled . It seems 
as if this gun pointed the way for me to try and win 
back the loaf that floated off oji a wave of ink guided 
by the pen of a thief, leaving me the unbuttered and 
fustian side of life. It may be a bloated idea as bread 
is ai)t to be that has soaked long, but I shall not regret 
the wild flowers of my prairie home, nor the harvest of 
plenty in the past, if in the stubble of adversity I grow 
to be a wiser, better, more charitable and helpfull 

Prairie Hen. 



LAST HUT NOT LEAST 



I notice in literature. 

Of follies there's thrice 
More puffing of styles 

Than the ' 'pearl of great price 
Every paper is iilled 

With quackery enough 
To make a big seth-pool 

Of worthless old stuff ; 
But I, like the rest, 

Must admit the soft jjassion. 
And deny not the truth, 

That [ m in for the fashion ; 
Thus, if I embalm, 

On this line and level, 
Mk. Frary, my publisher. 

Who started a '■ '■devil," 
I shall be up with the times, 

And accused of no lie — 
As clear as this printer 

Who can unmix a "j9i. " 
His many warm friends 

Will be glad here to meet. 



Ij) ''Last bvl Not Least:' 

And to know Ins deft linoevs 

Set these pages so neat. 
I bespeak for his Louse 

V patronage fair. 
For his style- and his cards 

Are set up witii care ; 
I admire his pluck, 

And wisli him gOod-speed, 
With his ear^est endeavors, 

He can t but succeed. 

(Jom'pUments of the Auihor to Mr. H. H. Frary. 



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